


Silent Treatment

by andthekitchensink



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Anilingus, Demisexuality, Don't copy to another site!, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, First Love, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Polyamory, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Pansexual Hank Anderson, Physical Abuse, Self-Harm, Sleep Paralysis, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2020-01-12 04:50:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 127,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18439388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthekitchensink/pseuds/andthekitchensink
Summary: One of the definite downsides of having people in your life who care about you is that sometimes you have to face facts and seek help for a problem you know you have. You go through with it, reluctantly at first, kicking and screaming all the way - if not in the literal sense. There's nothing wrong with you, you're fine, you don't need help, you don't need society at large judging you for not conforming to their stupid ideas of how one's supposed to live life. You don't even like people. People don't tend to like your company; why bother deciphering the unwritten rules of human interaction when humans are so *boring*.And then one day, you meet someone who makes you feel like a real person. Someone who looks at you without prejudice, without judging. Someone who doesn't give a damn about anything that doesn't truly matter. Someone who listens to you, hears you. Sees you, like no one ever has before....and then everything changes. For the first time in your life, you want something. Even if you're not sure what that is, exactly.





	1. Silence is Golden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BIGHANK (piano_fire)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/piano_fire/gifts).



> This is inspired by an idea BIGHANK (piano_fire) was good enough to share. It went like this: "Connor has struggled with selective mutism for much of his life due to trauma and finally decided to start going to therapy. Next door, Hank is at his weekly AA meeting, about 4 months sober now. Hank isn’t looking where he’s going and bumps into Connor on the way in."
> 
> I couldn't resist playing around with that premise, and here you have it: my first DBH HankCon AU. :D There'll definitely be more chapters once I've written 'em, so stay tuned if you like it. Watch this here space. Or my twitter account, for that matter: @NdePlume1
> 
> BIGHANK, here's to you. Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

 

Connor was facing a bit of a dilemma: a juxtaposition of equally valid factors, if you will.

 

If you looked at his life from a subjective point of view (which he always did), he had had no issues transitioning from adolescence to adulthood. He did well in school throughout his childhood, which continued with higher education. Unlike many of his fellow members of Generation Z, he never struggled with what he  _ ‘wanted to be’ _ when he ‘ _ grew up _ ’. Even at an early age he excelled at mathematics, he was equally proficient in languages, even sports. If someone asked him at age eight which he liked better, he’d tell them “They’re the same, I like them equally.”

 

However, if someone asked him what his favorite subject was at age nine, Connor didn’t tell them anything. That was the year his twin brother died, and from that point on Connor didn’t want to speak anymore. His mother understood him, and she didn’t mind. They had other ways of communicating with each other, with their hands, like they always had. Mother was Deaf, but her hands could shape such fantastical stories, such flights of the imagination that Connor didn’t miss the sound of his own voice. Silence became a comforting refuge, a place where he could think and dream without prejudice or disparaging comments. His mother understood what a bright child he was, how clever, and never did or said anything to dissuade him of his thoughts. His father didn’t cope so well, but then again he was always working - all across the globe, processing information for the US Military (or something along those lines). He could never say exactly what he did, and after enough times of the same answer, Connor stopped asking. They moved with him, from base to base, depending on his deployment.

 

Over the years his teachers didn’t know what to make of his silence, but they never complained as long as he did his homework. He always got such good grades, and naturally he would want to withdraw after his brother’s death. They _were_ _so close_ , after all, like his mother said, and who could blame a grieving child for not participating in the raucous games in the schoolyard? He had always been the quieter one, his brother the boisterous, outgoing clown of the two.

 

All his life, his family, his teachers and mentors had been accommodating, and he had found ways to cope with his own silence - or rather, with the discomfort of others having to face his silence. He didn’t much care for people his own age, or the things they talked about, or the games they played. As he grew up, that feeling never really went away. People were still as nonsensical, as dissembling and dishonest as children, only more manipulating, and Connor didn’t see the value in deciphering Other People beyond the bare necessities of body language.

 

Objectively speaking, therein lay the issue. The other side of the shiny quarter, if you will. Because it wasn’t working anymore.

 

He worked from home as a part-time programmer, all communication done via e-mail and the company’s integrated app...and he also worked as part-time customer service agent, using a chat interface and e-mail to help customers with their tech issues, and had done so for years now.

 

He...also had a third job, teaching ASL to friends and relatives of deaf children, where his silence was becoming an issue. Or, objectively speaking, had technically been an issue since the day he applied for the job.

 

He technically lied to get the job. Which meant, logically speaking, when she found out he wasn’t Deaf or mute through any physical disorder or trauma, Amanda should have fired him on the spot. Lies were serious, and she had very strong ideas about taking pride in one’s identity, whatever that may be. Connor had overstepped an unwritten line by not contradicting her when she assumed he was Deaf (don’t lie to your employers, or at least not if there’s the slightest chance you’ll be caught), but rather than sack his sorry ass, she had given him the benefit of the doubt based on his merits as well as his work at the school. There was only one condition: that he seek treatment.

 

Some three long, horrendous, dark summer months later, filled with fear and anxiety and panic, here he was, standing outside a tall brick building that looked more like a university wing than a treatment center, his employer at his side.

 

“Ready to see Dr Kara? If we don’t go inside soon, we’ll be late for your appointment.”

 

Connor bit the inside of his cheek, and brought Chlo-e out of standby. She had idled out, which she often did in times of immense pressure; when Connor couldn’t make himself think of something to say. Pressing his lips together, he tapped and swiped over the touch screen of his ePad, and, like always, like magic, Chlo-e acted as his mouthpiece. It was better that way. She had such a pleasant, soothing, happy voice.

 

|  _ I’m not ready, but I doubt I’ll ever be  _ **_ready_ ** _ , exactly. I don’t want to be here. _ |

 

Amanda pierced him with one of her infamous looks, the likes of which sent errant students rushing to get their essays done weeks ahead of time. “Connor. We’ve been over this. Everyone’s voice deserves to be heard, whether they can vocalize or not. You  _ can _ use your voice, so  _ use it _ .”

 

She spoke with such conviction, and truth be told, she was the first one not to take his silence as the norm, once she found out. Stern as she was, living up to her family name, she had come to look on him as one of her mentees. As such, she wanted him to use all tools available to him, and be better for it.

 

He still wasn’t convinced she was  _ right _ … But he wanted to keep his job more than he wanted to stay silent. Working with the kids and their parents/relatives/friends was nothing at all what he’d imagined from the start, but it was more than he ever thought he wanted out of a job. He’d become part of an awakening, of sorts, of families learning to communicate, friends growing closer, relatives realizing that being deaf, Deaf or mute wasn’t the end of the world. All these kids could grow up like any other children, and perhaps one day help change the world for the better. He couldn’t lose it. He couldn’t abandon his families-and-friends just because he was stubborn and set in his ways.

 

|  _ I  _ **_am_ ** _ using it. _ | he said, through Chlo-e’s teasing, friendly voice; Amanda cracked a small smirk, and he dared the faintest hint of a grin.

 

She shook her head, and started walking up the steps to the entrance. “Frailty, thy name is technophilia. What would you do if that precious tablet of yours should break? Or if someone steals it? How in the world will you cope?”

 

Connor shrugged, and typed his response, following along with a reluctance to his gait that was nothing if not palpable. |  _ I  _ **_do_ ** _ have a smartphone. And a laptop. And a-- _ |

 

“And a  _ job _ . Now  _ come on _ . Smartass kids...”

 

***

 

Three months later, Connor was less convinced than when they started that his therapy sessions were ever going to help. He wasn’t the kind to give up easily, he never gave up if he knew he was right, or doing the right thing. He didn’t quit, for anything. But talking with Kara had made certain aspects of his silence painfully clear to him. He wasn’t simply the quiet one, he didn’t merely choose to stay silent because he liked it better, and he certainly wasn’t able to just start talking again. He’d told himself that for most of his life: maybe tomorrow. Maybe I’ll think of something to say tomorrow. Maybe I’ll feel like talking tomorrow.

 

But it was all one, big, fat lie. It was like Katamari Damacy, but with lies. Instead of one million roses rolled up into an enormous ball, all lies. All his life. And just like the roses, he felt strangely empty. He felt...disempowered, or perhaps powered down. He felt as though his batteries were running out.

 

It wasn’t a choice anymore. He physically couldn’t speak. And what a rotten sense of timing the universe had - now that he had all these new words to put to what he’d felt like all these years, and he couldn’t even use them. He couldn’t make himself shape the words, couldn’t get air enough in his lungs for the gripping, unforgiving, King Kong sized fist of fear crushing him from the inside.

 

Three months in, nine sessions in total, Kara was still optimistic. Amanda didn’t need to be there as a social buffer anymore. He could speak freely with her, even if most of it still went through his constant companion, Chlo-e. He could look her in the eye when she spoke, even if he still struggled with it the other way around.

 

She saw progress, but all Connor could see was how little he had accomplished so far, and how much he still had to overcome to get anywhere near comfortable with speaking. He had to get results, and soon, or Amanda would be disappointed in him. She was the closest thing he had to a family in the area. He couldn’t disappoint her.

 

“If we look at the list of exercises,” said Kara, laying out what Connor had begun to think of as the Scourge of Mankind on the table. “We’ve managed to tick some of them off, which is great, but there’s still plenty to choose from. I was thinking this one could be a good exercise until our next session.”

 

Connor blinked at her, eyes like an owl. She couldn’t be serious.

 

“Do you think you’re ready to start recording your own voice, Connor?”

 

‘ _ No _ ’, he signed, one forceful, firm snapping motion; he shook his head,  _ no _ ; he got to his feet, grabbing his things, while Kara looked on with concern written clearly across her face - but Connor only rarely looked at people’s faces, for fear of catching someone’s attention, in case they caught him looking. He’d made that mistake as a child, staring at other children from across the school yard, or even in a room. Just looking, because he liked looking at people and draw imaginary graphs of their bone structure or the way they moved, like a 3D grid inside his head. One of the other boys got so upset by it he threatened to punch him if he didn’t stop, but Connor didn’t see what was the harm of it. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t stop staring, and the boy punched him in the nose. Another time, another class, another boy - that time he got called to the Principal’s office with his parents. He couldn’t say why he’d stared at that boy, either, except perhaps that he was pretty, with his curly hair, and his freckles, and his eyes, and the way his face was very nearly perfectly symmetrical. He just liked looking at people, all kinds of people, though he didn’t tell Principal Duval. He didn’t tell his parents, but he learned his lesson. He didn’t need a third incident to send the message home: it was better not to look at people when they saw you.

 

It had an added side effect, too. If he kept his eyes down, or his nose in his books, he was less likely to be singled out for reading out loud in class. Or for answering questions in class. Or, even, having to go through the tedious motions of polite greetings.

 

This was a strategy that didn’t work with Kara, which was one of many reasons Connor didn’t like her much at all.

 

“Not for me, Connor. Just for yourself. It’s a way for you to get used to speaking again, relearn how to use your muscles, how to articulate, shape words… Get used to the sound of your voice. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Could you sit down again? Please?”

 

She did her best, he told himself. She only wanted to help, he told himself; she didn’t mean to sound condescending or judgmental - but she was asking too much. After three months, nine sessions, and hardly any quantifiable progress, Connor had had enough.

 

His mouth pressed into a thin line over his lips, trembling like a frequency wave diagram, he jabbed at his tablet, caps lock, bold outline. Chlo-e sounded as perturbed as she ever did, which meant she sounded more apologetic and thoughtful than the frustration fueled flash of fury he felt.

 

|  _ Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid! I’m not a child, you  _ **_can_ ** _ use polysyllabic words. My brain won’t spontaneously implode from the shock. I’m done. We’re  _ **_done_ ** _. You’re not helping, and this is an exercise in futility. If you need a translation, it means it doesn’t serve a purpose beyond itself. It’s not that I  _ **_can’t talk_ ** _ , I don’t  _ **_want to_ ** _. _ |

 

Sometimes, Chlo-e only made him feel even more of a failure. He couldn’t even raise his voice like this. At least, if he could sign, he could get the point across with animation, but Kara didn’t know ASL. Or any of the multitude of sign languages across the globe. She was  _ useless _ .

 

He threw his backpack over his shoulder and clutched his ePad to his chest and stormed out of there, with Kara’s pleading voice fading into the background. At least she wasn’t following him. He didn’t know exactly what he’d do if she decided to come after him, which meant he had to make a quick exit. Dash down the hallway, take the stairs two at a time, approach a cluster of voices, people gathering for their weekly group therapy. Alcoholics Anonymous.

 

(Connor never understood the Anonymous part. The moment you stepped in there, you weren’t anonymous anymore. He couldn’t imagine everyone using aliases, or wearing masks, distorting their voices. How could you trust anyone there not to talk about the things you told them in confidence? Perfect strangers, and you walked in there thinking it would make a difference  _ talking to them _ about your issues?)

 

He had two choices: slip through the main entrance like he always did, quick, before anyone noticed him, or brave the crowd of people coming in through the side door for the AA meeting.

 

There was a bus stop outside, out front, but his bus wouldn’t get there in another ten minutes, and he wanted to make a clean getaway. Standing at the bus stop for 10 +/- 2 minutes was not his idea of a quick exit strategy.

 

He calculated some 20+ scenarios of what may or may not happen depending on which door he chose, and ranked them according to statistical probability: Side door it was. He could rent a bicycle from the stand 450 meters away, he could be home in thirty-three minutes if he didn’t have to stop for red lights at intersections.

 

He plopped his earbuds into his ears, left, then right. Music was both a filter against the outside world, and another tool at his disposal to discourage people from calling out to him or strike up conversation. He could always pretend he didn’t notice them, didn’t hear because of the music blaring into his ears. He picked a song at random, but he wasn’t in a habit of picking songs he didn’t like for his playlists, which meant one of his favorites cued just as he jumped the last two steps and zoomed down the hallway towards the crowd. Goldfrapp, Super Nature, first track - he liked it for its pleasingly mathematical rhythms and melody, and the lyrics were only so much white noise as anything. He didn’t tend to parse them unless they were relevant to him personally. Most of the time he thought they were all stupid, anyway.

 

Five steps to the corner now, round it, and door--

 

But rather than find a clean exit, he slammed head first into a wall that wasn’t supposed to be there. Something solid and unrelenting, immoveable. As he tumbled backwards onto the floor, mortified and terrified at the same time as so many eyes would surely be turning on him, all he could see was the most perfectly blue pair of eyes he’d ever seen in his entire life, all 31.543 years of it. Pretty, prismatic blue, and bright like the skies and the oceans at the same time - Connor looked away immediately, but not without an entire catalogue of data filling his mind’s eye: shaggy hair, gray and white like his beard, an enviable bone structure, and a tiny gap between the front teeth. He had nice teeth. They were pretty, too.

 

“Hey, whoa,  _ Jesus _ !”

 

Even if one of his earbuds hadn’t slipped out in the fall, Connor would’ve heard him loud and clear. He could read lips, and while the finer points of social interaction were often lost on him, he could speak body language almost entirely fluently. The massive man, distorted by perspective but still solid, substantial, was clearly apologetic.

 

He also happened to have a voice that sent weird chills up Connor’s spine and sent those ludicrous lyrics he didn’t even like into very, very sharp focus. Suddenly they mattered. Suddenly he knew exactly what they meant.

 

_ Switch me on, turn me up, don’t want it Baudelaire just glitter lust. _

 

The bassline thrummed relentless as a tidal wave, and Connor felt his face heat up, taking on a crimson color by the feel of it alone.

 

_ Switch me on, turn me up; I want to touch you, you’re just made for love-- _

 

“You okay? Here, lemme help you--”

 

But Connor shook his head  _ no _ , picked up his tablet and ran for the door, while Goldfrapp blasted in his left ear, about all the euphemistic  _ ooh la la la la _ she needed.

 

He’d never felt so exposed in his  _ life _ . He’d never felt anything like that before. Not ever. Beauty was aesthetics, sexuality (if he had one to begin with, he wasn’t ever quite sure) was purely academic, something other people worried about.

 

If this was what attraction felt like, he didn’t know what all the fuss was about - sexual attraction, arousal of the senses,  _ libido _ \- it felt entirely too close to fear. Why else would his heart be racing in his chest like he’d just ran a marathon? Not to mention all the other physiological responses to fear currently wreaking havoc with his body.

 

No. If this was attraction, he wanted nothing to do with it. None whatsoever.

 

***

 

As first encounters went, it was one of the weirder ones in Hank’s recent memory. No, scratch that, it was the weirdest first time meeting anyone in his entire life. There he was, minding his own business, trading bullshit anecdotes with a fellow recovering drunkard before the next meeting, when out of the blue comes Speedy fuckin’ Gonzales barreling ‘round the corner, and faceplants into his chest.

 

Comical, if he didn’t feel like such a shit - and if the guy wasn’t  _ literally _ the prettiest boy he ever did see. Dimpled chin, hint of beauty marks or whatever you call ‘em when you’re young and beautiful - freckles? - before you pass a certain sell by date and they’re suddenly ‘age spots’. Dark hair with one single floppy curl that didn’t want to stay in place. A mouth you wanted to talk dirty, lips to do unspeakable things to. Slim fellow, nothing wrong there, broad and slim in all the right places.

 

It would have been comical, if the guy hadn’t flashed a look of sheer terror before running off like a spooked animal, leaving him there with his hand outstretched, feeling like both a skeevy perv past his sell by date and kind of stumped as to what just happened.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” said his fellow anony-mouse. “He’s one of the psychos. Ya know. Coocoo’s nest shit. I’d steer clear of him if I were you.”

 

“I’m not worried,” Hank replied, absent-minded, more focused on the guy who just ran out the door. He wasn’t the worrying kind. Mostly because he didn’t give a shit about what people thought. The people who  _ mattered  _ mattered, and the rest could go fuck themselves for all he cared. He also wasn’t the kind who let other people’s opinions dictate what he thought about shit. Or people. Or a magnificent pair of doe eyes, widened in alarm. Or worse. Fear.

 

The guy was scared, not just startled, not just embarrassed about taking a tumble: scared. Near petrified. Hank swallowed down the impulse to chase after the guy, try another apology, ask him if he got hurt, something,  _ anything _ , just to make that look in his eyes go away.

 

As far as first meetings went, Hank wasn’t left with a questionable skeevy perv slant on what just happened, but a gripping desire to make things better.

 

Part of him would’ve preferred to take on the stereotypical old pervert schtick. You could write off shit like that - as a side effect of his dysfunctional life, being a horny bitch all hours of the live-long day. If he couldn’t drink, he could fuck any willing thing in the state of Michigan, right? Not that was all that interested in actual, RL sex anymore. He’d entertain the thought of it, have fantasies about crazy sex he’d like to be part of, he’d jerk off. Occasionally. With little to no enthusiasm. This was the first jolt of anything he’d felt in a long time, so ooh-rah for his dick, or something. His mini-me wasn’t completely dead. Yay!

 

...but wanting to protect someone? Comfort them? Someone he’d never met in his entire life, knew nothing about? Now that was scary. Down that path lay nothing but pain and grief. His cop senses tingled. From all angles.

 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go before Kara gets ideas about pulling us in by the ears.”

 

“She does that?! Shiiit!”

 

Hank half smiled. Stupid asshole. Of course she didn’t. “Don’t tell her I told ya.”

 

***

 

Far as second impressions went, Hank hoped he made a better one the next time around. It was three weeks later, three AA meetings later if you counted November 5, most of which he spent thinking about that guy, that baby-faced goddamn kid who was probably too damn young for his sorry old ass. Every time he went to the past three AA meetings he’d secretly hoped to catch sight of him again, maybe try a more casual approach, say Hi and whatnot, introduce himself. Try not to knock the guy on his ass again. Find out his name, preferably, so he wouldn’t have to keep thinking of him as ‘that guy’, or ‘the kid’ ( _ eeeuuuggghhhh _ , he felt so  _ old _ , sometimes) he bumped into and scared off within seconds of meeting him.

 

And then, Friday before Thanksgiving, Hank was helping himself to some coffee in the meeting room they commandeered every week at seven, come rain or shine or holidays, every Friday, no excuses, and he looked up from his pre-meeting coffee, the first of many before the meeting was over...and there he was.

 

Just...walking down the hallway, next to the doctor herself - and Hank’s heart stood still for God knows how many seconds.

 

He was taller than he remembered him, but then he’d seemed to shrink in on himself. His body language made him look smaller, the way he had scurried away like a startled dormouse, and even now there was something muted about him, just coming down the hallway. They were talking - or Kara was talking, gesturing, possibly talking about the weather, small talk, non-business talk. If he was one of her patients, like Mick had suggested, she wouldn’t be discussing treatment plans for anyone to overhear.

 

That wasn’t what pinged Hank’s cop-dar, though. It was the way Kara was the only one talking. The guy barely even looked at her, just kept pace with her, watching the floor, that tablet thingjig clutched to his chest like a shield.

 

That curl still didn’t want to play ball. The sight of it made Hank want to smile. There was something incredibly disarming about a man dressed in such a proper outfit, with that one little detail out of place. It was charming. Cute. It was cute.

 

Hank watched as they said their goodbyes, in so many words. Guy merely lifted one of his hands from the wrist up and gave a wave from four feet away. Weird. But...cute.

 

After the AA meet, and about five cups of decent-but-not-technically-good coffee, Hank had worked up his nerve to see if he couldn’t pick the doc’s brain about a certain someone. He stayed behind under the pretense of helping her with the chairs, collecting wayward coffee cups, so on - but there really was no subtle way to ask, and he had to start facing his own second-guessings before they morphed into paranoia or fear of his own. He had a tendency for dark thoughts, but he’d been...more sober in the past three-four months now than he’d been in years. Seemed like the less he drank, the more the skies seemed to lift, give him space enough to breathe again, think clearly.

 

Funny, that.

 

“So, uh, I was meaning to ask you…”

 

“Yes?” She looked up at him, stacking chairs for him to lift into place along the walls. She wasn’t the kind of lady who couldn’t do her bit of lifting and carting shit away, but she was grateful for the help just the same.

 

“About your friend. You were coming down the hall, earlier. Right before the meeting?”

 

She wasn’t stupid, or gullible. He saw the moment she caught his proverbial drift, and all the professional walls of protection went up. “My friend?”

 

“Yeah. Young guy, tall-ish, almost as tall as me. Dark hair, brown eyes. You know.”

 

Kara’s lip curled into something close enough to a smile. “What about him?”

 

Close enough not to be entirely polite. She was intrigued, and Hank wasn’t about to miss an opportunity. “I know you can’t tell me if he’s a patient or whatnot, and I’m not asking. I don’t care either way, I just… Last time I saw him, well, first time we met, I...kinda knocked him on his ass, startled the living shit outta the guy, and I…”

 

The young woman leaned back, as if to size him up with a warm but critical eye. He hoped they’d learned enough about each other over these past four months and change that she didn’t stonewall him completely.

 

“You…” she pushed her lips into a moue, weighing her words. “Want to make sure there’s no harm, no foul?”

 

Hank scratched the back of his head, and scrunched his face into a mask of awkward, bite-the-bullet, time-to-fess-up suffering. “Kinda. Um. You...wouldn’t know if he’s, say, if, if he likes...grabbing coffee with a perfect stranger?”

 

To his everlasting surprise, Kara’s eyes lit up with amusement, and something that looked like pride. “Wow. Hank. You’ve come a long way!”

 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t sound so smug!” He groused, stepping away from the wall. Together they went for the tray of cups and bag of trash, respectively. She’d take the tray back to the kitchen for cleaning, he’d take the trash on the way out. Piece of cake. Except he was blushing like an heirloom tomato, and he dared her to point it out. Thankfully, she just took the tray, and down the corridor they went.

 

“I know he drinks coffee,” she said, a diplomatic note to her voice. “But you’ll have to figure out the rest for yourself. I really can’t say. Maybe you’ll bump into him again? Sounds like he had quite an impact on you.”

 

It took him a split second too long to pick up on the blatant innocence of the statement, and he turned slitted eyes her way. “Funny.”

 

“I’m here all week,” Kara grinned up at him, and they came to a stop outside the side door. “But, the way I see it, if you would happen to come by on Wednesday, say, six o’clock?”

 

“Wednesday. At six. Why?”

 

“Because you accidentally left your scarf behind, which I called you about on Monday, and we arranged for you to drop by on Wednesday evening.”

 

“Uhuh.” Hank’s eyes were still narrowed slits, but he liked where this was going. “Of course you did. Why not Tuesday?”

 

Kara shrugged. “You’re a busy man. But you can make it on Wednesday, at the earliest. Six o’clock. He always takes the bus here, and the bus home stops right outside, at the front. You have about a five minute window until the bus gets here. Should be enough to find out about his coffee habits, right?”

 

Of all the matchmakers in the world, he’d never have pegged Kara for one, but he was certainly grateful. “Is this you telling me I’m not completely insane?”

 

“This is me telling you that it’s okay to show an interest in people. It’s  _ good _ to make new friends.”

 

Right. They’d leave it at that, then. Hank lifted his black bag full of garbage in silent gratitude and farewell, all wrapped up into one gesture. She nodded, and they each started moving in opposite directions.

 

“You’re not telling me his name, are you?” Hank threw over his shoulder, and promptly grinned at the reply.

 

“I can’t do all the work for you, Hank. See you next week!”

 

“Yeah, right. See ya!”

 

And that, as they say, was that. It was settled. He’d have to get past Fowler’s lie detector eyes come Wednesday, or he’d start asking way too many questions about his personal life. He was a good friend, the kind of guy who left well enough alone as long as Hank’s personal life was officially dead and maintained a quiet, nondescript status quo. It had been three years since the death of his son, two years since his relationship with his mother crashed and burned once and for all, and some people just couldn’t get it into his head that he just was not interested in getting back in the saddle, or whatever the modern terminology was. He had his job, he had his dog, he had his books. He didn’t need anything else. Fowler understood that.

 

He was probably the happiest of all his handful of friends that Hank was trying to get himself back in gear, stop abusing alcohol the way he had for years, now. And if he found out about this latest development, there was no telling the kind of crazy Jeffrey would be guilty of. This was the guy who’d picked  _ him _ up and swung him around like something out of The flippin’  _ Sound of Music _ when he found out he was going to be a dad.

 

Who knew what Jeff might do this time - even if it was just an idea so far. Even if it was just a cup of coffee.

 

Jesus fucking Christ. Holy fucking shit.

 

It was best not to say anything at all, just slip out quietly, or better yet, follow up on leads outside of Central Station. All day. Every day leading up to Wednesday. Complete avoidance, that was the way to go.

 

Yeah. That’s the way to do it.

 

...he was so screwed.

 

***

 

They say the third time's the charm, as if there was something inherently magical about the number three. Unbeknownst to Connor, Hank was willing to take a gamble and hope there was something to it, even if it wasn’t so much the third time they met (hopefully), but rather his third attempt at it.

 

He had parked a bit further down the street, not wanting to be too early but time his ‘coincidental’ arrival perfectly. Preferably just as Connor was coming down the steps out front.

 

Unfortunately, as the Powers that Be would have it, Connor was early to the bus stop, and Hank was right on time. Unfortunate, because he wasn’t alone, but because he got bad company. The kind of company who thinks it’s fun to treat others like they’re nothing, like they’re objects, toys to be played with.

 

They were young, no older than The Guy, though looks could be deceiving. One of them had taken away his ePad, and the other two were blocking him. Three against one, and Hank didn’t blame The Guy, Guy for short, for just standing there like deer frozen in the headlights. The look of him made something clench uncomfortably in Hank’s chest. It was a look he’d been the focal point of, and it made him feel even worse about their first encounter.

 

“What’s wrong, dumbass? Want your precious gear back?”

 

One of the goons chuckled, dark and menacing. “Ha! Dumbass. Deaf  _ and _ dumb, that it? Cat got your tongue, or what?”

 

The only girl of the group was no better, but then why should she be? People were people, Hank had always found, and shitheads came in all different shapes and sizes. “I know where he can stick his tongue,” she said, to the delight of the others.

 

“How’s this thing work, anyway? Oh, hello! Dumb-o got a girlfriend! Chlo-e! Awww!”

 

Just when Hank thought he was gonna have to be a knight in shining armor (he hated that trope, but he was willing to grin and bear it any day of the week, for anyone who needed it) something happened that completely changed the way he looked at The Guy.

 

Guy positively flew into action without so much as a sound, swinging his backpack around to knock the biggest guy in the head, effectively slamming him into the LED wall of the bus stop booth; the girl next, grabbed by the arms and simply  _ lifted _ out of the way like she weighed nothing (she shrieked bloody murder, Big Goon sagged to the ground), and  _ throttled _ the one who’d taken possession of his pad.

 

Hank didn’t need to be a knight in any kind of armor, because Guy sure as fuck wasn’t a damsel in distress. All the same, Hank saw where this was heading, and the last thing he wanted was have three buffoons press charges for having the living crap beaten right out of them.

 

“Whoa! WHOA, HEY, GUYS, BREAK IT UP!”

 

Big Goon was ready to get back up, Girl with Attitude flew at him but to no noticeable avail. Hank was a bit of a tree trunk, with or without having cultivated his beer gut, and the girl had more smarts than she had gusto.

 

The Leader of the Pack was knocked out cold with a bloodied nose and a shiner the size of Texas, while Guy’s focus was entirely on his pad. It was covered in snow and gravel, the case torn, screen cracked.

 

“Fuck off, Gramps,” Big Goon moaned, in equal measures embarrassed and posturing. “Or I’ma call the fuckin’ cops.”

 

“I  _ am _ the fuckin’ cops, you little asshat,” Hank sneered and showed them his badge and the gun in its holster. “Now piss off somewhere else, and take the trash with you, or I’ll haul all yer asses into jail and throw away the key code! Get a MOVE ON.”

 

Just as he’d thought, Girl got smarts enough for the three of them. She told her friend to help get Jock (charming name), and away they went, Hank watching until they disappeared from view.

 

Guy didn’t seem to notice, wiping slush from his pad, picking tiny little crushed stone from the cracked screen.

 

“Sorry about your pad,” Hank said, glancing his way now the more imminent threat was well and over. “You okay?”

 

Guy shrugged, mouth slanted in a stark line, and tucked his pad into his backpack before slinging it onto his shoulder. And then he started walking.

 

“...oh-kay. ‘Thanks for the help, stranger. Howdy-do and buh-bye now’? That it?”

 

Guy stopped dead in his tracks, perhaps by sheer surprise, and turned those doe eyes on him, widened in open-ended query, looking him  _ right in the eye _ , eyebrows arched high up.

 

Then he looked in the direction of wherever the gang of unsuccessful gangstas went, still wide-eyed, eyebrows still arched.

 

Then he looked at Hank again, one eyebrow going all the way down, and the other seemed to slant at an even steeper angle. His mouth opened, revealing perfectly white teeth, little pointy eye teeth and all, and he pointed at the bus stop, and shook his head with the mightiest shrug Hank had ever seen.

 

He found himself grinning, following along as Guy resumed his forward motion. “Yeah, fine,  _ I know _ , you did all the work there, but you have to admit I make a pretty badass kill stealer.”

 

Again, Guy paused mid-step, shooting an increasingly frustrated look his way, though this time their eyes didn’t meet.

 

“Nah, you’re right. That’s a bad thing. I haven’t played video games in...twenty years, maybe. Guess I’m not up to date re: the lingo.”

 

Guy kept moving; Hank followed along. “Could you stop for a second? I’m trying to strike up conversation, here, you’re not supposed to just walk away.”

 

If Hank wanted a verbal response, he certainly got it. It just didn’t sound anything at all like he’d expected. Guy got out his cellphone, unlocked it, brought up an app, and started...texting?

 

Hank blinked, the phone unceremoniously shoved an inch from his face. |  _ I don’t want to talk. Go away. I don’t care what you want, or how you think I’m supposed to behave. Go. Away. _ |

 

It was a woman’s voice, soft and pleasant, a delight to listen to. It was that...ubiquitous app everyone used, for shopping, for translating texts, for asking all manner of stupid questions because they couldn’t be bothered to Go-Oogle stuff.

 

Chlo-e. Apparently she could just...talk at people, too.

 

Nonetheless, point taken. He held up the palms of his hands, backing off. “My bad. I just-- felt bad about last time we-- bumped into each other. I recognized you, thought maybe I could improve your first impression of me. Instead I’m acting like a creep, I get it. I’m sorry. Again. Have a nice day.”

 

He turned around, shoved his hands in his pockets for the short walk back to the treatment center. Might as well commiserate with Kara, if she had a minute, tell her all about how there’s a reason he never tries flirting with people: case in  _ point _ . He got about five steps before Chlo-e piped up behind him.

 

|  _ Why? _ |

 

The question sent chills up his spine. He didn’t know if that was a good thing, or if it was his cop instincts telling him to get the Hell outta there. He turned around, slowly. Guy still had his phone out, eyes glued to the touch screen.

 

“Why?” He swallowed, throat suddenly dry. He could really use a drink right about now. Or yesterday, preferably. He’d throttle someone for a bit of a warm buzz, because he sure didn’t know how to even begin answering that question.

 

“Why, what?”

 

Those long fingers started typing even before he’d finished talking, as if Guy there could anticipate his follow ups.

 

|  _ Why do you feel bad? Why are you apologizing again when you already did so last time?  _ | His fingers stilled, or his thumbs, more accurately, but Hank had a feeling there was another question mark just waiting to form. And he was right.

 

|  _ Why would you want to improve on my first impression of you? _ |

 

Guy was undoubtedly an original, that was for certain. A one-of-a-kind model, hidden depths galore. Hank hazarded one step closer, but stayed well away from any invisible zones or spaces of the personal variety. He still didn’t have a clue how to answer that  _ Why _ . But...he could have a go at the expanded version.

 

“I feel bad for knocking you off your feet, didn’t mean to do that, but also...because you looked genuinely scared of me. I know I’m rough around the edges, but I’m not used to people looking at me like that.”

 

|   _ You felt uncomfortable. _ |

 

“Yeah.” Got it in one. “And I’m apologizing because… Because I’m learning how to properly do it, but I’m struggling. Because it’s a ‘social lubricant’ that makes things ‘run more smoothly’ between people, and…” Did he just say that?  _ Social lubricant _ . Gaaaaaawd.

 

“You’re supposed to be as specific about what you did that hurt someone, so they know you really mean it when you say you’re sorry. So I, I apologize for scaring you, but I can understand that I did, and I’ll do my best not to do it again.”

 

The Guy stared off into the middle distance, still facing half away from him. Then his eyes returned to the screen, and he typed yet another follow up. |  _ Not skulk around corners, blocking unsuspecting strangers dashing for the nearest exit? Apology accepted. _ |

 

Hank grinned. Kid got a sense of humor. A bad sense of humor, but it was just the way Hank liked it. “Oh, good. Phew. I’m… I’m Hank, by the way. Hank Anderson.”

 

|  _ You didn’t answer my last question. What rank are you? You told the other people you’re with the police. _ |

 

Inquisitive little prick. Alright. “That’s another question. Okay. Uh. That other one first.”  _ Here goes, sink or swim, Oregon or bust _ . “Beeeecause I think I’d like to know you better. I have a good feeling about you. Even if you’re a bit skittish. And nosy. As for your  _ last _ last question, I’m a lieutenant.”

 

Even though the enigmatic, inquisitive prick of a man stood turned away like that, Hank still caught the tiny twitch of his mouth. He smiled, there and gone again in a flash of teeth, and Hank’s heart did flips in his chest.

 

|  _ In that case, I bid you a good day, Lieutenant Anderson. Stay out of trouble. And _ | . . . |  _ thanks for the help.  _ |

 

He started walking away, and this time Hank stayed put with a shit-eating grin on his face, and he couldn’t for the life of him pinpoint  _ why _ . This was a fiasco. It was a flop. Rotten tomatoes flying through the air, and yet… “I was gonna ask you out for coffee, you know! Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?”

 

Guy kept on walking, but soon enough Chlo-e’s voice drifted across the growing distance, like a lifeline. |  _ Maybe next time, Lieutenant.  _ |

 

Maybe next time.

 

Hank could live with that. He most definitely could.

 

***

 

Connor listened to the retreating steps of the lieutenant, Anderson, Hank.  _ Hank _ . It was a good name, it suited the rest of him, even if Connor wasn’t sure why it fit, or why it felt like a wholesome, dependable name. Down to earth, solid. Like the man himself.

 

His heart raced in his chest still, like it had since the incident at the bus stop and in a similar way to the first time they met - but with one big difference: he wasn’t scared this time. Not of the bullies, not of Hank. He had a... _ presence _ about him that sent electric currents tingling all over Connor’s insides, but not in a bad way. He didn’t want to run this time.

 

He hadn’t even asked about Chlo-e. Didn’t so much as bat an eyelash at her. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand to know, didn’t… look at him like anything but a real person. A real human being. An equal.

 

When he was absolutely certain Hank was far enough away, Connor turned around to watch him leave - tall man, broad shoulders, broad  _ everywhere _ , really. Solid. Real.

 

_ Beautiful _ .

 

Connor ducked his head with a fresh smile, and plopped his earbuds in, one ear at a time. Left, then right, and brought up his playlist on his phone. He didn’t even need to look, his playlist always seemed to know exactly what he was feeling - whether he agreed or not, completely regardless of whether he wanted to admit to anything.

 

It was another Goldfrapp song, yet another one that never made any sense until right this moment. This wasn’t simple, complicated, dangerous attraction. This was...that, and more.

 

_...wonderful electric - cover me in you; I’m in love with a strict machine… _

 

Goldfrapp was wrong, of course, though she kept insisting even as he turned on his heel and walked to the next bus stop on the line, heart buzzing with the rhythms and the melodies intertwining with the lyrics.

 

_ When you send me a pulse, feel a wave of new love through me; I'm dressed in white noise, you know just what I want, so please… _

 

_...I’m in love with a strict machine… _

 

Of course she was wrong. Hank wasn’t a strict machine at all... 

 


	2. Enjoy the Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Dramatis Personae is added to, Kara feels vaguely apprehensive, Hank's a happy puppy, then he's a dog left alone with a bone.
> 
> Connor's growing in confidence, and it is a thing to behold.
> 
> Fowler is a nosy friend, of a sort.
> 
> Connor tells his only real confidante about Hank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, almost all my chapter titles ever are either references to music or movies or games. This series is no exception. Shhhh.)
> 
> Please excuse my at times threadbare chapter summaries, I just don't want to give too much away! XD

* * *

 

 

It was another day, just like any other, three faculty members sitting in the staff lounge with their choice of beverage. It was their favorite time of day, that sweet spot after regular scheduling, but before evening classes began: their schedules didn’t intersect every day of the week, but one or twice, which only made their chats more valuable to them. They would sit there, discuss current events, politics, religion, philosophy, the pitfalls of history and the potential ways forward. None of them were too impressed with President Warren and the way she was running things, but they had a long way to go before they’d stand at the forefront of revolution, rebel yells and torn flags and all. No, they were not quite there yet. They were just three friends who had worked together but separate for the past five years or so. Simon was the veteran among them, of sorts, having taught comparative politics for longer than he cared to admit. Josh was second-in-command, teaching philosophy, while his passion lay slightly off to the side, in the field of ethics, and artificial intelligence. North was the rookie, if she could be called that in any other context. She had seen her share of the world, settling into a civilian life after a brief but rewarding career in the US military - hence the obligatory use of her surname and nothing else. Her passion was current affairs, but she viewed the world through a lens tainted by the past mistakes of humanity. If anyone could be said to be a rebel among them, it was her. To the endless amusement of her colleagues, she was arguably also the most paranoid of them all.

 

Her latest object of suspicion, well-founded or not, was the weird guy from the Linguistics department.

 

“I don’t trust him,” she told her friends, for the fifth time in the past three weeks. It was a marked improvement since February, but it was becoming something of an old joke to the other two of their trio of friends.

 

Simon sipped his Oolong tea, eyebrows arching above the rim of his big cuppa. He and Josh had heard this enough times, regarding different members of staff, new and old, that they knew the schtick word for word.

 

“He sticks his nose where he has no reason to. Just last night, I caught him going through records in Professor Stern’s office!”

 

Josh mouthed ‘zen garden’ to Simon, who hid a grin behind his cup, a mere second before North added, with a sweeping gesture. “And the zen garden! No one has access to her precious atrium! Guess who was in there, chatting with her just the other day!”

 

“Yes, it’s very disconcerting,” Simon said, wry but fondly amused at the same time. Sometimes he wished he could see things so clearly: no gray zones, just clear cut color schemes. He had so many gray zones in his life he could sell the surplus for a profit - unlike his friends, who were polar opposites in so many ways.

 

“I bet he’s spying on us! The ASL gig is just a convenient cover, he can hear everything we say and report back to her, and we’re just supposed to accept him into the fold like anyone else!”

 

“He isn’t deaf, of course he can hear what we’re saying if he walks in. And he  _ isn’t _ just anyone else, North,” Josh pointed out, not for the first time. It had become something of a game to them, to attempt changing North’s mind though they knew it wasn’t possible. They didn’t know how. “Have you seen his class? They adore him! He’s a brilliant teacher, and I’m happy to have him as a colleague.”

 

Simon nodded, touching the base of his cup to North’s, in a placating toast of sorts. “And what’s he going to report back, anyway? We can’t be the only group of people discussing the news every coffee break we get. We’re hardly revolutionaries.”

 

“I don’t know,” said Josh, flashing the others a big, white grin. “If you grew a beard and a pair of glasses, you could almost pass for a young Leon Trotsky.”

 

“‘The end may justify the means as long as there is something to justify the end’? Fair enough, though I’m too much of a pragmatist to get into politics.”

 

Just then, the recurring theme of North’s suspicions, and their current topic of discussion, entered the staff lounge. The trio sitting around the table quieted down, two of which unsure how to diffuse a potential confrontation, should things come to verbal blows. North just watched, hands around her cup, elbows on the table, while Connor walked directly to the coffee machine without so much as acknowledging their presence.

 

He picked a cup from the counter, pressed a button on the machine, and left as soon as the last drop had dripped into his chosen hot beverage.

 

He left, and soon enough, North hissed. “See? What the Hell  _ was that _ ?”

 

“Ristretto, I believe,” said Simon, who had a better vantage point from where he sat.

 

Josh concurred. “No one in their right mind drinks that stuff this time of day.”

 

Simon grinned, and added. “Mmm. Suspicious.”

 

It earned him a punch in the arm, but North got the point well enough. They drifted onto other topics of interest, like the growing tensions between the US and Russia, over that territory in the arctic that no one could figure out why it was so valuable.

 

At least for the time being, all was well in their microcosm.

  
  


***

  
  


The same could be said for a different place of work. On the other side of town, at Detroit PD’s own Central Station, it was business as usual. With one notable difference, as Captain Jeffrey Fowler saw it. Hank was whistling at work. He even made paperwork look like fun. It was just about time for a friendly bit of intel gathering. Recognosence of the non-hostile variety. Fowler found his chance in the break room, under the clever guise of getting another cup of coffee (despite the fact they both knew he had a state of the art coffee machine in his office, bought and paid for with his own hard earned cash. A fact which neither one of them remarked upon). However, Hank did shoot him a look that was half sizing him up and half saying he knew exactly what he was up to.

 

“You’re in a good mood today.”

  
“Eh, it's nothing.”   
  


Bullshit, said Fowler’s sharp glare. The coffee machine whirred, filling his cup. Hank grabbed a donut from the counter. “You're whistling. You never whistle.”   
  


Hank shrugged, sipped his coffee, which was technically too hot for human consumption, but it was exactly how he preferred it. “I think I made a new friend.”

  
“Oh, did you, now? A  _ friend _ .”   
  


“Uhuh.”   
  


“Spill.” Fowler took his cup off the tray, leaning back against the counter beside his old, old buddy. The tv was set to one of the less newsworthy news networks, debating the role of nano technology in modern society. If you could call it a debate, and not what it always degenerated into: a squabble.   
  


“Not much  _ to _ spill, Jeffrey. I don't even know his name yet.”

  
Jeffrey peered at him, more curious than anything. Intrigued by that new glint in his friend’s eye. It was new in the sense that it had been missing for way too long. All the same, he wouldn’t be one of Hank’s oldest friends still alive if he wasn’t a bit of a troll. “...is he an imaginary friend, by any chance? Do you need a link to worldnames-dot-com?”

  
Hank guffawed - also kinda new and old at the same time. It’d been a long time since he laughed out loud in anything but a gallows humor way. This was bright, happy-awkward belly laughter. The good stuff. “Wouldn't it be funny... Meh, no. He's real. Realer than anyone else I've met in...forever.”

  
“That's not even a word, Hank.”

  
“It is now. He's, uh. He's quite something, and I'm not saying anything else until I know where this is going.”

  
“A name might be a good place to start. Just saying. I'm not calling him John Doe just 'cause you don't have the guts to approach him.”   
  


“Oh, we've talked,” Hank said, eyes on the tv screen - probably to keep himself from grinning like a goddamn maniac. It  _ was _ always easier to keep a straight face if you didn’t have to look someone in the eye.

 

Fowler sighed, and sipped his coffee with a hiss of pain. Still too hot, and God knows how Hank did it without so much as twitching. “I give up.” He gave his stubborn old friend a nudge, saying, with so many words, that this was it. No more third degree bullshit - not that you could legitimately call it that. Hank wouldn’t tell him anything, and Fowler knew to hold off on all the important questions until his friend had some goddamn answers. “Now getcher ass back to work, get shit done.”

  
“Aye aye, Captain.” Hank gave him a sloppy salute, which belied how he actually felt about the armed forces. It was another one of their friendly jabs at one another. Fowler was a highly decorated war veteran, of course Hank would take every chance he could to remind him he was a civilian these days. Just like Fowler knew all about Hank’s past, and liked to remind him to live in the present.

 

They clinked their cups together, Fowler grabbing one of those donuts on the way back to his office, and Hank munched happily on his pick as they ambled back to the bullpen.

 

“Thanks for asking, though,” said Hank, which gave Jeffrey pause.

 

“No need. Just...trying to be a good friend.”

 

Hank nodded. That’s what friends were for, after all: getting all up in each other’s business whether they liked it or not.

 

Jeffrey went back to his elevated glass cube for an office, feeling no more knowledgeable than when he set out to find out what the heck had his friend all fuzzy around the edges. Just the same, he felt better for having asked, and he was willing to go back to leaving well enough alone, until Hank indicated otherwise.

 

“For a moment there I almost thought you were a well adjusted member of society, Hank. You that happy to be working on Thanksgiving?” asked Ben Collins, dry-witted and always ready to get out the friendly banter.

 

Fowler grinned, surreptitiously shaking his head, and stepped back into his office. Time to wrap things up for the day, go spend some time with his family. He’d promised his lady and his baby girl to cook them up a feast, if they just did a bit of prepping, and he was not the kind of man to break a promise to his loved ones.

 

Especially not since he was married to a woman who’d not too long ago had counted herself among the particular brotherhood called Special Forces. Not only did she know how to kill you dead, she knew how to get rid of a body so it was never ever found. Pint-sized and kickass, she was, and their daughter was growing up like a chip off the old mama block.

 

It went without saying, but Fowler was one of the luckiest guys on the planet.

  
  


***

  
  


Kara had a sinking feeling she’d made a very big mistake: humongous. Gigantic. Enormous. The more she listened to her patient, the more convinced she got. It didn’t matter to Connor that it was Black Friday, as he didn’t have any friends or relatives to shop presents for. It was just another Friday in a string of other Fridays, with the exception that he had the day off, which he wasn’t entirely happy about. He’d rather be working, as he didn’t see the benefit of having a Friday off work simply for the sake of tradition.

 

She was always working Fridays for the AA therapy group, so she didn’t mind having other patients during the day. If nothing else, she was dedicated to the wellbeing of her patients, whether they be coming to the open group therapy sessions, or one-on-one, hourly meetings, like with Connor. It wasn’t the work in itself that she found difficult to handle, but rather the knowledge that her patients trusted her with their innermost fears and secrets, their deepest desires, the scariest dreams they had of the future.

 

Connor was no exception, and though he was terribly inexperienced when it came to human relationships of all kinds, including the romantic, and/or sexual variety, he wasn’t the first one such patient of hers. He wouldn’t be the last. This was different, because she knew the object of his sudden interest, and it was dawning on her exactly how inexperienced he was in this particular area of human emotion and connection. To make matters worse, she had played a part in this new horizon dawning on him, and she didn’t know how to feel about it.

 

Through Chlo-e, he asked things like |  _ How do you know if someone likes you? _ | and |  _ How do you know if  _ you  _ like someone? How can you tell? _ |

 

|  _ Does attraction feel different from infatuation? _ |

 

|  _ Why does it feel like fear and nausea? _ |

 

|  _ I tried asking Chlo-e, but she didn't tell me anything I couldn't find online. It doesn't make any sense. _ |

  
Kara's heart broke into tiny little pieces as she listened to him. First love was precious, something to be cherished, something magical - but you shouldn't have to wait until your early thirties to experience it - she knew who Connor was talking about, asking about, without naming names. Then and there she resolved to talk to Hank after the AA meeting, opting for discretion. But of course, as fate would often have it, she didn’t have any say in the matter. Connor beat her to it.

 

|  _ Hank Anderson. In your AA group. Is he currently in a relationship? _ |   


Kara blinked at him, completely taken off guard. “Uh. Not that I know of, no.”

 

|  _ I mean in a sexual-and-or-romantic capacity. _ |   


“Yes, I know what you mean. Far as I know he's not in a relationship.”   


Connor smiled at her then, eyes averted to the side, obviously pleased with her assessment. |  _ Good, _ | he said, beaming at his smartphone.

  
  


***

 

The third time they met, it was like a veil had been lifted from his eyes, and he could see the world clearly for the first time in who knows how long. Whether he liked to admit it or not, Hank hovered by the coffee thermoses, so as to have a strategic vantage point re: the hallway, hoping to ‘accidentally’ bump into J.D, John Doe, Mr Doe Eyes, Guy, for short. He had butterflies in his stomach, or perhaps an excess of coffee and nerves, and then, suddenly his ears perked up at the sound of Kara’s voice, of footsteps approaching, and there he was.

 

There they were, coming down the stairs, saying their goodbyes - Hank’s heart thudded hard and fast in his chest, fearful of missing an opportunity, but just as he thought The Guy was going to turn and walk the wrong way, towards the front entrance - he paused in his step, and wonder of wonders, glanced over his shoulder, warm brown eyes beaming like searchlights in the dark. And they lit up in recognition.

 

Hank just about thought he’d have a coronary incident right there and then, as The Guy that had occupied most of his waking hours and almost all of his dreams, lifted his hand from the wrist up and waved.

 

Somehow he didn’t seem so subdued anymore, even if their eyes didn’t hold contact for long, even if he seemed to almost blend into his surroundings by sheer force of will. Hank raised his own hand, feeling like he was five years old, waving at someone across from the playground. It felt-- innocent. It felt precious.

 

And then Guy came closer, walking with purpose, Kara looking on from behind him with eyes as big as saucers. Someone was about to break the unwritten rules of social conduct, and she seemed at a loss for how to stop it - or undecided as to whether she wanted to do anything about it.

 

Hank met him halfway, scratching at that itchy spot of awkward shyness at the back of his neck. He could feel a beaming kind of grin tugging at his mouth despite his best efforts to play it cool. Kara passed them both, he gave her an absent-minded Hi, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from who had to  _ literally _ be the most attractive guy in the world.

 

“Hey.”

 

Guy waved again, in that same way, barely lifting his hand from the shoulder strap. He smiled a tiny little smile, as if he was innately shy, or just unused to all this attention. Though how that was even possible, Hank couldn’t imagine. Guy had a sharp wit, sass to back it up, and eyes to lose oneself in.

 

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, teasing, knowing it was a horrible cliché. But if you couldn’t poke fun at your own expense, what’s the point of doing anything? “Come here often?”

 

Guy rolled his eyes; Hank bobbed his eyebrows. Bad joke, yes, indeed. “You goin’ to tell me your name this time?”

 

The Guy shrugged, got out his phone, typing a quick reply. |  _ Anonymity is a dying artform. _ | He gestured at the meeting room filling with people. |  _ I rest my case. _ |

 

“Alright.” He nodded, crossing his arms for not knowing what to do with his hands. “I’m just gonna keep calling you ‘that guy’. ‘Guy’ for short. ‘John Doe’. ‘Doe-Eyes’. You can stop me anytime you want.”

 

|  _ A rose by any name, Lieutenant. _ |

 

“I’d like to call you by  _ your name _ .”   
  


Guy pursed his lips, tapped at them with his index finger, eyes darting up to Hank’s face, then resumed typing.

 

|  _ I suppose exchanging names is another of those social lubricants you mentioned when last we spoke. _ |   


Behind Hank’s back, by the table full of treats, Kara nearly choked on her coffee. Hank chuckled. Guy got game.   
  


“Yeah, I think you're right about that. Helps 'grease the wheels' of social discourse.”

 

Guy’s eyebrows arched delicately.

 

|  _ Intercourse, you mean. _ |

 

Good thing Hank had left his own cup of coffee behind, or he would have dropped it down his own shirtfront. He was never going to stop grinning at this rate. “I, I’m sorry, what?”   


|  _ ‘Dealings or communication between individuals, groups, countries. An exchange of thoughts, feelings, et cetera, between individuals'. Intercourse. _ |   
  


“I didn’t want to lay it on too thick. Figured ‘discourse’ was a more polite word for the same thing.”

 

The Guy tilted his head back and forth, like a sideways nod: neutral, neither agreeing or disagreeing. He typed again, and Hank once again feared he’d have to deal with something worse than mere palpitations. Who knew what he’d say next, through that sweet, mild-voiced app. It was  _ amazing _ .   
  


|  _ That’s kind of you, but since we're the object of everyone's bald faced fascination, we might as well give them a show. _ |   
  


Hank beamed at the other man, feeling warm and fuzzy all over, as if his center was suddenly gooey and melting. He was so screwed. Completely fucked. His butterflies weren’t butterflies anymore, but amoebae with little tiny wings, and they were multiplying. “You wanna go grab that cup of coffee now?”

 

Guy, still anonymous, shook his head in the negative. |  _ Your therapy? _ |   


Hank nodded slowly, considering his options. Guy was right, he’d come here for a purpose other than flirting very badly in the hallway with someone he didn’t even know the name of. Yet. “Okay. Then, after? I know this place we could meet up, and if you've had a change of mind, you know, that's okay. You don't have to show up, no hard feelings.”   


| … … … time and place? |   


_ Yessssss.  _ “The Java near Hart Plaza? The one next to the overpriced pizza place, know the one?”   
  


Guy nodded, once, twice. Affirmative, nod nod.   
  


Hank suggested they meet at a quarter past nine, and watched, mesmerized as Guy thought about it, and thought about it some more, until finally his eyes zoomed up and into his own. Rather than type, he simply gave a thumbs up. Hank felt like flossing, and he’d been about two decades too old to floss when the damn trend started trending  _ over twenty years ago _ . Gawd, but he felt old, sometimes.

 

“Yeah? Great! Fantastic!”

 

The guy almost,  _ almost _ smiled, and hurried in the opposite direction, no doubt in order to catch the bus.

 

From behind him, there came a familiar voice, one filled with caring, motherly tones. “He’s a nice guy, Hank.”

 

“Uhuh.”

 

“Be nice to him.”

 

He turned around to see Kara there, two cups of coffee in her hands. She gave him one of them: the one he’d left behind. “I’m not saying you aren’t a nice guy. You’re a good man. But...when things get difficult…”

 

“Life’s difficult,” Hank pointed out, quiet, gentle. It was the understatement of the year, and the look Kara gave him said they were on the same page. He knew what she was saying, but all the same, “If it were easy,  _ you _ would be out of a job. Come to think of it, so would I.”

 

“You’re right,” Kara replied, and pressed her hand to his arm. “I’m being a mother hen, and you’re right. Life’s difficult.”

 

Hank grinned, and let himself be led back into the fold. “Life’s a bitch.”

 

“Life is a  _ challenge _ , and you’re more than up for it.”

 

End of discussion. It was the beginning of something new. Something neither one of them could see the shape of just yet. It was the beginning of a new future.

  
  


***

 

Perhaps going out for coffee with a stranger on Black Friday wasn’t such a good idea to begin with, but at least most people weren’t out hunting for deals on espresso - and besides, by the time Connor stepped off the bus he’d done his homework on Lieutenant Hank Anderson of the Detroit PD. He knew everything there was to know, as far back as he could find digital records. He’d had to settle for not finding out if Hank had been a good boy in his elementary school days. He knew everything he needed to know: Hank Anderson was a good man who had done everything by the book (insofar as he felt it was the right thing to do), risen through the ranks, and then, unfortunately, come face to face with every parent’s worst nightmare. Three years ago, he lost his son, and from then on came the tidal wave of bad influences on his personal life as well as his career: disciplinary notes, the brawling, the drinking, breaking up with his ex, becoming a volatile man displaying plagued by depression and suicidal tendencies. Until some four months ago, when, for whatever reason, he had joined Kara’s AA group. There was no mention of it in his DPD file, which meant it was either not a mandatory exercise dictated by his superiors, or it was handled off the record.

 

He was a well intentioned man, someone who didn’t stand idly by when someone was accosted, and yet he had a horrible sense of humor, and didn’t know when to leave well enough alone… And yet, where so many others had looked at Connor and seen nothing but a disability, or had assumed that just because a) he didn’t speak to you, and b) he did not crack a smile at your poor attempts at conversation, then that meant c) he was stupid. The brunt of people’s jokes, since school. The source of so many people’s discomfort, as he grew up.

 

Hank didn’t seem uncomfortable around him. After weeks and weeks of therapy trying to make himself speak again because it was an ‘untenable situation’ (not only according to Amanda, but he was beginning to agree with her solely because the older he got the more he vaguely--  _ wanted _ to be able to speak. Just to have the choice. Just to be able to call out to someone across the room, or the street), here was someone with whom it didn’t even seem to be an issue to begin with. A non-issue, after more than twenty years of dealing with prejudice and being misunderstood or discounted as a human being. It was incredible.  _ He _ felt incredible.

 

The only thing Hank took issue with so far was his reluctance to give his name. As far as he was concerned, it wasn’t a big deal as such: it was daunting. It was monumental, because he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had asked him his name. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d had to introduce himself, in his own voice, because his brother had always beat him to it.

 

In conclusion, it wasn’t a big deal to most people, but it was a big decision to make all the same.

 

Everywhere he walked, it seemed Chlo-e was there to promote items on sale, or how to get from point A to point B the fastest, or where to go for a meal of your choosing. She was everywhere, because she was amiable, and sweet, and charming, and she was the highest ranking app on the US market. For a few dollars, you could have your own personal assistant, your aide, confidante, best friend. If Chlo-e couldn’t do it, she could point you right at someone who could. She was the perfect spokesperson for the concept of artificial intelligence, AI, and how it could make your life so much easier.

 

Every now and then, there were flares of anti-AI opinion, demonstrations here and there wanting less AI and more personal freedom  _ not _ to use it - but those arguments were irrelevant to him, and he rarely paid any of it much attention.

 

The only times he had an opinion was when he stood in front of establishments, like the Java coffee shop Hank had suggested, and come face to face with a warning sign. Somehow, it was both cheerful and vaguely menacing at the same time.

 

AI FREE ZONE! REAL COFFEE: MADE BY REAL PEOPLE - FOR REAL PEOPLE

 

...whatever that meant, Connor wasn’t sure, except for the fact he wouldn’t be able to use Chlo-e as his mouthpiece, which tended to limit his conversational options to nods for yes, head shakes for no, and shrugs for when undecided. As first dates went - or, first coffees, let’s not get ahead of ourselves - he rather had the odds stacked against him.

 

Make the tall, handsome, substantial, broad-shouldered, bearded guy fall madly in love-or-lust with him by  _ miming _ , Y/N?

 

Chance of success: minimal.

 

Forego communication altogether, and simply smother the lieutenant in kisses and white noise, Y/N?

 

Chance of success: ...moderate, but course of action unadvisable. He’d been fairly certain they’d been flirting the past two occasions they spoke, but he couldn’t be absolutely sure.

 

Connor sighed, concluding that he might as well go back home and do something  _ useful _ , instead of entertain vague notions of sexual or otherwise-ly bliss outside a coffee shop. But then movement caught his attention, right there in the corner of his eye, broad shoulders and a knitted scarf, dark red, and shaggy gray-and-white hair on the other side of the glass.

 

The door dinged as the lieutenant himself opened it, stepping outside. He had a grin on his face that looked like a query, and sure enough, Connor was right in that assessment, at least.

 

“Hey, there. Come on in, don’t just stand out here in the cold.”

 

Connor shrugged, tapping a quick response. |  _ No AI allowed. I believe that includes apps on android smartphones.  _ |

 

Hank scrunched up his lips, looking like he’d just munched on a wedge of lemon, expecting orange. “Wait right here,” he said, holding up his hands as if a mere gesture could stop him from going anywhere. Connor decided to indulge him, and arched his eyebrows -  _ alright, fine _ .

 

To his surprise, Hank returned in the blink of an eye, holding two cups. “Don’t know whatcha like, but I got one plain, black, strong enough to get your heart racing, and one loaded with spices and sugar and shit. Holiday nonsense, or whatsits. Eh? What’ll it be?”

 

Connor’s mouth tugged into a smile. He didn’t like smiling, had always felt he looked weird, but he couldn’t help himself when this supposedly volatile cop got so excited over coffee. It was...sweet.

 

|  _ Well, since you make such a convincing argument. Black coffee, please.  _ |

 

Hank grinned, handing over the mug-to-go, and they settled into a slow walk side by side. It was officially the first day of ramped up commerce for the coming Christmas holidays, but was reasonably quiet. Or perhaps they were just immune to the stressful bustling of the city. It felt quiet. It felt...comfortable, to walk side by side with a man and say nothing, for a while.

 

Then, of course, nothing lasts forever, and most people crave some form of interaction at some point in time, and Hank was no different. He was content to just walk for a while, and sip his sweet, chai spiced coffee n’ cream latte, until he couldn’t stay quiet anymore.

 

“I love Hart Plaza this time of year. All the lights, all the people. Everything covered in a thin layer of snow, you know, nothing like the blizzard Hell we get in January. This?” He said, nodding his chin at the plaza at large, not too far away in the distance. “This reminds me of being a kid. Back when you could count on it not fuckin’ raining in November.”

 

He shrugged. “I could be remembering it wrong. I  _ am _ ancient.”

 

Connor smirked, clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, right behind his front teeth. He typed with one hand, slowed down a bit, but still fast. He had a lifetime of learning how to type real fast behind him, and smartphones had evolved immensely over the past few years. It was as if Chlo-e knew what he was going to say, before even he knew. He could just pick the right words and sentences from a shortlist, if need be, and voilà!

 

|  _ I don’t like snow. _ | he said, to the point, simple, but the way Hank slanted his head indicated he wanted an elaboration. Type-type-type. |  _ I never seem able to wear enough warm clothes when it’s snowing. I’m always cold. _ |

 

They talked, and after a moment Connor could feel a change in the air between them, as if the other man could feel his low level frustration. Hank took his cup, and said “Talk to me,” in a way that Connor couldn’t remember anyone else doing. Firm, no nonsense - but rather than expect him to use his voice, Hank freed up his hands: and Connor repaid the favor one, small step at a time.

 

He tucked his phone into his jacket pocket, and started signing, while Chlo-e’s 3D imagery enabled her to continue. Connor signed, using big gestures and small, and the more they talked his entire body became animated with his words. Chlo-e translated, and Connor slowly gained the confidence to talk to someone new,  _ with _ someone new, in person, for the first time in years. He couldn’t hide behind a screen, or e-mails, or apps, or interactive touch boards at the school. Even though Chlo-e was there, she seemed to fade into the background. She didn’t so much as speak  _ for him _ anymore, as she relayed his own words.

 

Perhaps it wasn’t such a big difference to an outside spectator, to pick between the written or spoken word, but it meant the world to Connor. He didn’t have the luxury of picking his words out from a list, or his own mind, to be careful about phrasing, he had to think on the spot, right then and there as he was talking. In class, he had his entire lessons planned out beforehand, and all the improvisation had to do with answering questions or helping with articulation.

 

This was worlds apart.

 

Though he didn’t dare so much as a glance at the lieutenant’s face, he felt shivers running over his skin like tiny lightning bolts. Hank was staring, drawn in, attentive, attuned to every word he said,  _ listening  _ to what he had to say. Over the course of the next hour they talked about the various states of snow and their favorite seasons of the year; they argued about music, genres, lyrics; basketball MVPs both past and present - and not once did Connor get the sense that Hank was humoring him in any way. He wasn’t playing nice with the weird guy, he was genuinely intrigued. They were  _ bantering _ for goodness’ sake, trading coffee mugs back and forth between pleading their respective cases for or against any given topic of choice. He found himself staring at Hank on more than one occasion, and it was nothing like those bad, old, lonely days at the schoolyard when he just wanted to look at people to better understand them, or appreciate them. He felt different, because  _ this _ was different.

 

It suddenly seemed like such an easy decision to make.

 

‘My name is Connor,’ he said, signing the words with a fresh jolt confidence. Chlo-e sounded...happy. No,  _ pleased _ .

 

Hank, on the other hand, stopped mid-step. It was just a tiny slip, but he was clearly surprised. It tickled Connor’s funny bone that he’d managed to slip one past the seasoned cop.

 

“Pleased to meet you, Connor.”

 

Something about the way he said it made Connor reconsider that earlier, potential option to pounce him, smother him in kisses of some description or other, but his own internal calculations still said it was an inadvisable way forward. Instead he nodded, and dared a quick darting grin thrown Hank’s direction.

 

He looked...different. His eyes were incredibly blue and dark at the same time. “I… Geesh, fuck. Kara says we’re supposed to be honest about stuff. Even if it’s hard. Especially when it’s...hard. Uh.”

 

Connor blinked, not entirely parsing why Hank was suddenly blushing like a beetroot. ‘About?’

 

“Honest about… It’s just that-- there’s being honest, and then there’s TMI, and I don’t want you to think I’m a disgusting old pervert within five minutes of knowing me.”

 

They were slowly approaching Connor’s bus stop, or one of the stops where he could hop on the bus and head home, but he didn’t want to leave so soon. They had been talking for over an hour now, walking around and across Hart Plaza, just sharing each other’s company. Their coffee was a thing of the past, cups thrown in the nearest trash can, and he wasn’t sure if he could suggest they buy another. He’d never worried about the social protocols surrounding coffee before.

 

He shook his head, only hesitating by a fraction before his hands spelled out an honest truth of his own. ‘I think you’re beautiful.’

 

Another glance up at his face to check if it was the right thing to say, or at least not inappropriate, but Hank’s face was a mask of incredulous emotion. “I’m sorry?”

 

Connor tilted his head, and said the exact same sentence all over again despite the fact he hated having to repeat himself. ‘I think you’re beautiful.’

 

“I-- Okay. I…” Hank blinked, looked away, and then continued to stare at him. His voice was warm when he finally found the words to speak. He stepped closer, one hand reaching out to tentatively brush up Connor’s arm. “I was going to say I’m really attracted to you, and I was hoping you’d want to do this again, sometime. And then you go and blow my mind, and not a word of warning. I’m--. I don’t know what to say… Beautiful? Are you sure your app’s reading you right, ‘cause--”

 

Connor shook his head with a grin, and threw himself down the proverbial rabbit hole, no holds barred, no inhibition, just pure, unadulterated  _ want _ . ‘Yes,’ he said, one final word before pulling Hank in by that knitted scarf, pulling him in for one kiss after another, desire and enthusiasm and greed making up for what he lacked in experience.

 

He could taste the spices on Hank’s tongue, and he wanted more: more of Hank’s question-mark-moans, more of his big, strong arms closing tightly around him, more of his body pressed so close, so unmistakably tangible and real and  _ significant _ . More heat.

 

He kissed him again, and again, until he couldn’t blame the coffee for the way his heart was racing, until they were both out of air, panting white puffs of smoke in the cold November night. And then Hank kissed him back.

 

He missed one bus. He didn’t care, as long as it didn’t have to end, let people stare and hoot and whistle too loudly at them. By the time the second bus pulled into the stop, it was Hank that pulled away. He was breathless and red in the face, his lips swollen and pink from the kisses, cheeks flushed and gorgeous, and his eyes had never looked so blue.

 

“I don’t do this,” he whispered, hands still moving over Connor’s back as though he couldn’t make himself let go. “I never do this. But… Take my card? Text me, call me, whatever. I want to see you again.”

  
  


***

 

Connor spent the entire bus ride home in a stupid daze - or a dazed stupour, perhaps, but the core of the matter was he felt as if he’d left his brain behind somewhere. At the bus stop, maybe, right around the time his fingers got inexplicably tangled in Hank’s hair and everything that wasn’t to do with his mouth or his body or his moans or his beard or his breath drifting warm over his skin simply...ceased to exist.

 

Hank was the epicenter of...whatever that was, wreaking havoc with his body. Everything else was white noise, and he got so lost in it he almost missed his stop, just drawing perfectly calculated graphs in his head, or ranking Hank’s many and varied physical attributes according to any number of factors: geometry, density, metrics, quantity, quality.

 

His mind just couldn’t quiet down with all the input he didn’t know where to output, and he ended up in his tiny little studio apartment, his face split in half from a grin that hadn’t truly left him since he had to choose between kissing Hank or missing the bus. He left his snow-slushy shoes by the door, dropping the backpack on the couch that doubled as a bed. Perhaps he didn’t have much in ways of material wealth, or space, but it was enough for him.

 

As if on cue (except he’d illegally tweaked her coding to better suit his requirements), the monitor in the corner switched itself on, revealing a familiar, friendly face seated in front of a brightly lit backdrop.

 

“Welcome home, Connor. I set the timer on your coffee machine when you got on the bus home. It should be ready for you.”

 

“Thank you, Chloe,” he signed, then grabbed a glass from the cupboard above the small kitchenette worktop. He didn’t technically want another cup of coffee, but the sheer thought of it made him think of Hank again (though he hadn’t  _ technically _ stopped), and the aroma gave him entirely filthy ideas. He shook his head at himself, blew across the top of the shimmering black liquid gold and sat down very carefully on the edge of the seat.

 

“How was your evening? I don’t want to pry, but… You seemed to really enjoy yourself tonight.”

 

The reaction was immediate, and very hard to miss: he could feel a blush spreading like wildfire over his skin all the way down beneath his collar, and the grin that had never really left his face came back in full force. He nodded, and sipped his coffee. It was the understatement of the year, or his life, which he told her as soon as he’d set down his cup.

 

Chloe smiled, sweet and friendly as always. She suggested some recipes she’d found, in case he wanted to try something new. She asked him if he’d remembered his vitamins, and chastised him for not eating well enough. Connor shrugged: it was an ongoing debate of theirs. She would urge him to cook, actual food, and eat more, and he would point out that he didn’t particularly enjoy cooking  _ or _ eating. It was so much fuel to him, just a necessity to keep going, and he had better things to do than  _ eat _ . Eventually she would convince him, and he would make an effort, but he always found the  _ idea _ of food more appealing than the reality of it. He could rattle off the caloric content of any meal at just a glance, but that was the extent of his interest.

 

They segued back to the topic of the Lieutenant with a capital L, and they both agreed that he had a certain something special about him that had little to do with his quantifiable variables, like height or weight, measurements (Connor rather liked his measurements, as he could guesstimate them - like his belly. He liked the bulk of him), but how he moved, how he talked about things, how he seemed so at home in himself (at least on the surface: one doesn’t typically develop addiction for feeling content about life, and Connor could only imagine the loss of his son was a wound that would never heal right), the way he hadn’t even hesitated to involve himself in the fight outside the treatment center, last time.

 

He was a good man, and tonight Connor had left him standing at the bus stop with a sizeable erection, looking perfectly lost for words.

 

“I want him,” he whispered, hands moving in tiny little patterns, floating through the air. “I want him naked, in my bed - if I had a bed - and I want to…  _ do things _ . I--”

 

He sighed, and swigged down the last of his coffee. His head felt heavy. His right temple throbbed, the way it did most days. “It’s all very vague.” He pressed his head into the palm of his hand, rubbing back and forth, even though he knew it was only ever a temporary relief. It never really helped the tightness in his skull; only staying busy helped distract him, if he just focused on a million different things at the same time.

 

“How’s your head, Connor?”

 

He shrugged. Chloe suggested some painkillers and a nap, and made a note in his calendar to get a refill on his prescription. He did as suggested, feeling strangely exhausted from all the emotions rattling inside his metaphorical heart. He took his vitamins and his painkillers, and set about his nightly routine like he always did. If he could just curl up on the couch/bed under a ton of blankets, and maybe pretend Hank was right there with him, maybe he’d feel better in the morning. He could pretend they were curled up against each other, close and snug and intimate for the lack of space on his couch. He could dream of king sized beds and Egyptian cotton sheets, but...he preferred it this way.

 

“Maybe you're right, I should try to sleep a bit after all this excitement…” He yawned, wide like a lion. “Goodnight, Chloe.”

 

Chloe nodded, smiling. She had no reason not to smile. “Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

For the moment, all was well with the world. But then there was the question of the ever elusive tomorrow, and what the future would bring in the coming weeks.

 

It was something neither one of them could have prepared for.

 


	3. Two Guys and a Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank invites Connor to his house for the first time, and quickly realizes he has no idea how to do this sort of thing. Having people over? *Important* people? People that make his eyeballs sweat with badly timed arousal? Yeah. No fuckin' idea. Good thing he has Sumo to act as social buffer, or he'd be completely screwed. Except, maybe that's the whole point? Maybe?
> 
> It's a date night that doesn't go the way Hank planned, but that's really okay in the end.
> 
> Really, *really* okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FLUFF AND FEELINGS, GUYS! Next chapter is more of the doom variety, so enjoy this sort of thing while it lasts!
> 
> Completely HankCon-centric chapter, btw. And a bit of Sumo, for good measure.

* * *

 

 

Early December, Hank felt like a teenager again, except for the blatant lack of awkward growth spurts and trying to navigate the dark waters of an ever changing voice. He certainly felt as hormonally challenged, experiencing flashbacks to those years, full of nonsensical attraction, surprise boners, and a constant string of wet dreams, and daydreams consisting of hardly anything but sex.

 

Fowler was the only one apart from Kara who knew he’d ‘made a new friend’, and he’d had to deal with more than one frazzled phone call in the past two weeks. Hank felt both invincible and terrified, and paradoxically enough, the happier he felt, the more drawn he was to the lure of alcohol. Kara had tried to reassure him that it was a natural response, and reminded him that he had all the tools he needed to resist. Fowler said much the same, that he had friends, and if he needed someone to tell him not to grab another bottle of Black Lamb on the way home, he was more than happy to.

 

Hank doubted he’d ever be one hundred percent sober, every day, for the rest of his life, but it would be pretty damn nice to be able to choose not to get completely drunk off his ass. He wasn’t there yet. His co-workers knew he was trying to deal with his issues, and at least they weren’t in the habit of dragging him out drinking after work. It was worse when he got texts from his old Red Ice team, the bastards. He’d give his left kidney to each and every one of them, which made it difficult to resist when they sent out invites. Difficult, but not impossible. He had other things on his mind, thankfully, like the mad, teenage makeouts with his new friend. They’d gone out for coffee again, three times now, and every time they had to say goodbye Connor seemed determined to map every square inch of the inside of his mouth. Lick every last trace of coffee from his lips. Suck on his tongue like he was trying to get the filling out of a hard candy.

 

Yeah… That image didn’t leave him lying awake at night, committing unspeakable acts to his own body. Not at all. He could only imagine what he was like in bed, and that on its own was enough to make him sweat in the middle of winter.

 

That, and the nagging voice at the back of his head, questioning why the most gorgeous person in any room would want to knock boots with him. Middle aged, dad bod deluxe, beer belly not going anywhere despite the recent beer deficiency, scruffy AF, questionable sense of humor… Questionable levels of sanity. He wasn’t exactly the catch of the day - he knew he was handsome enough, or had been, four years ago, and maybe that was his own issues coming back to haunt him. He’d gone so long not caring one bit about his appearance, and suddenly here comes someone new, who is, by all accounts, a marvel of nature, and for obvious reasons he was slowly beginning to care again.

 

Also natural, said an Oogle search. People wanted to look their best to attract a potential partner, especially in the early stages of attraction. Or something along those lines.

 

But Connor would bury his hands in his hair like it was the most  _ amazing _ , scruffy bird’s nest he’d ever laid eyes on, and he’d stroke his beard like it was fascinating and  _ felt good _ , and through sheer, selfish greed, Hank did absolutely nothing about his hair, or his beard. Even if he spent a good five minutes extra every morning, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, trimmer at the ready. Just in case.

 

Tonight was one more source for nervous tension doing weird things to his self confidence. He’d managed to get some time off for once, because Fowler was a good friend and a good boss, and Hank never took out his damn vacation days. It was Saturday, and Connor was coming over that night, and Hank was feeling...on edge. Jittery. Nervous.

 

First thing he did coming home last night from work was pour his last few remaining beer bottles down the drain, because he didn’t trust himself with the stuff. Not when he was going to have guests...singular, someone over, someone irrefutably  _ special _ , and he was  _ really _ intent on making a good impression.

 

He couldn’t cook for shit, but he could be  _ not _ drunk off his ass the first time Connor came to his house. It felt important...because it was important. He spent the first half of the day trying to clean his house, while his 250 lb St Bernard looked on skeptically from his chosen spot in front of the fireplace.

 

His house wasn’t going to win any kind of interior decorating awards, not anytime soon, but by the time he’d finished he felt confident enough. It looked clean enough. He’d completely eradicated the tribe of dust bunnies, he’d wiped down every surface until it looked shiny and new by comparison, he’d vacuumed the Hell out of the entire house. He even polished the fucking windows (inside only, he’s not insane), for crying out loud. Dirty clothes were relegated to the laundry basket, fridge cleaned (stuff of nightmares, that), trash taken out, dog hair combated with the clever use of packing tape (not like he owned a lint roller), he even made the  _ bed _ . God. He hadn’t made his own bed in… … ...years. Not since Cole’s mother moved out. Why bother? It’s not like he  _ cared _ .

 

Except… He kinda did. Now. He cared so much his palms were sweating.

 

The afternoon was a mess. He rushed all over town trying to figure out what to cook, and maybe he should get something nice to wear, cover up the ol’ gut a bit. In a moment of sheer frenzy he considered buying his first ever item of shapewear, but decided against it. He wasn’t going crazy, he was just...not good at dating (Jesus, he should get condoms! Shouldn’t he? He should, right?). He hadn’t dated, really, ever, he’d just...met people, and things had just happened. He met someone, they clicked, and things evolved from there. He wasn’t the candlelit dinner out type, or the chocolates and roses type, or even, if he was honest, the coffee type - but he could make an exception. If he had to. Needs must, that sort of thing.

 

This was all so very new, and truth be told, he felt entirely too old to be pursuing something (anything) with someone who was over twenty years younger than him.

 

Forehead resting against the steering wheel of his old Ford Granada, he took one, giant, deep breath and let it out slowly. It was all in his head. He had a couple hours, still. Might as well be a proper grown up and  _ communicate _ . As much as it irked him. As much as he disliked it. Why couldn’t people just stay in their own bubbles and never interact, ever?

 

He made a disgruntled noise at the back of his throat, and got his phone out. He hated texting. Damn phone was too fucking small for his big fucking thumbs and he  _ hated texting _ .

 

[What u wanna eat?]

 

Stab the send icon...wait for-fucking-ev--  _ ping!  _ “Oh?”

 

[Your spelling is appalling. Are you intimating that you’ll cook tonight?]

 

“Intimating…” Hank chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m not  _ intimating _ anything, you dork,” he told Connor, who obviously wasn’t present to hear it, and typed something even more appalling. [I’m asking. What u want 2 eat 2nite? Aside from my ~bearded!face smiley~]

 

...send or don’t send? “Eurgh…”  _ Send _ . “That was awful. He’s gonna hate that.”

 

_ Ping! _ “Well, there ya go. Hm.”

 

[I‘m not much for food. If you want to have dinner, cook something you enjoy.]

 

“Weird.” [Fine. No comments re: my spelling? ;) ]

 

The response he got was as quick as the first two, and it made Hank grin like a fool in love. [It clearly didn’t work the first time, Lieutenant. See you tonight.]

 

“Takeout it is…”

 

It was one less thing to worry about, as Connor was rarely anything but literal. He said he didn’t want food, he didn’t want food. Only problem was, it made Hank wonder what exactly he was hungry for, if not food.

 

He had to remember to get condoms. Just in case.

  
  


***

  
  


Once eight o’clock came rolling around and there was only a few minutes to go, Hank had been ready and moving around his house for well over half an hour. He didn’t pace. He just walked, back and forth, hither and thither, fussing over whether he should have eaten before his date came over or if he could use as an excuse to hide behind if things got awkward. One of those godawful ‘social’ lubricants, sharing a meal with someone. Having coffee together. He’d put the machine on a few minutes ago, and it was making one Hell of a fuss, sputtering and hacking like it was one step from being recycled. He was determined to offer  _ something _ , even if it wasn’t food. He didn’t care much for polite bullshit, etiquette, but he was learning. His grief counselor was worthless, stopped going after a handful of sessions - except for one thing: he’d told Hank in all honesty, that he didn’t always like adhering to social rules of conduct either, but he used them because  _ they worked _ . He could buy that argument. He just wasn’t sure they worked with  _ Connor _ , which was possibly his source of agitation. Probably. He didn’t want to change his ways, but felt compelled to, but if it didn’t even matter? Really?

 

One of the many,  _ many _ downsides of staying sober was, to Hank’s mind, that it made overthinking things too fucking easy. He’d even put together a playlist for the evening, because a love of music was one of the things they had in common. Maybe they had different tastes overall, but that didn’t mean much. Hank wasn’t the kind of guy who hated anyone who didn’t think Knights of the Black Death was the best thing since sliced bread. He grew up in the eighties, ferchrissakes, he was the last one to talk about having a questionable taste in music. Connor veered more towards mid-20th century stuff, everything from crooners to singer songwriters to pop and funk and slightly more modern techno beats, while Hank was a mixed bag of a different kind, preferring metal to most other genres, and the more industrial the better, a bit of jazz (mostly because his Dad loved the stuff, and the things you listen to as a kid tend to stick). Somehow that didn’t stop them from having heated discussions about the stuff. They’d even touched upon movie soundtracks, of all things. Eventually, common ground was found in rock music, but death metal was not a deal breaker.

 

In short, he had made a god-- fucking-- awful  _ mixtape _ . He was so screwed. How lame could a man get before it crossed the line between cute and absolutely pathetic?

 

There was no time to mull it over - he heard a car door sliding shut, and he darted to peep through the blinds out to the front lawn. Just as he’d thought, 9:59 PM, Connor had just stepped out of a Detroit Taxi cab, and...adjusted his tie, smoothed the front of his jacket, and something in Hank’s chest seemed to unclench, or evaporate. Connor almost always wore some variation of the same outfit, shirt and tie, maybe the barest hint of a pattern here and there, but all shades of gray, with the occasional specks of blue. Tonight was no different, but that tiny little seeming insignificant gesture made Hank feel that much better.

 

Connor wanted to look presentable. Not that Hank wanted to read too much into it, but maybe it meant he wasn’t the only one feeling a bit nervous.

 

“Alright, Sumo,” he said, stepping away from the window, moving towards the door. “Showtime, best behavior, alright? No frowny faces.”

 

Sumo huffed, barely lifting his brow at the admonition; Hank waited for the doorbell, feeling like a complete ass just standing there, but, again, best behavior, good impressions. The doorbell rang, Hank took a deep breath or two, and somehow it didn’t matter he’d had a bit of a dress rehearsal in the bathroom earlier, he could still feel his pulse beating too fast right there in his throat.  _ Hi, how are ya? Come on in, make yourself comfortable. Lemme take your jacket. I made some coffee, if you’d like? _

 

He opened the door, and all the words melted away on his tongue at the sight of his guest. His  _ guest _ . His  _ date _ . Connor was wearing a winter coat, thick wooly material, big buttons, the darkest shade of wintery green, and the color did something absolutely fantastic to his face, or his eyes, or just...some such crap. He looked rosy cheeked and bushy tailed, for lack of a better phrasing, and it made Hank’s mouth dry up in two seconds flat. He couldn’t get a single word out.

 

They stood there, mutually looking each other over, staring at each other, really, and Connor slowly, slowly, began to smile. He stared Hank right in the eye, not a lick of shame to him, showing no sign at all of looking away, the way people always did. Not Connor. He soaked up every last little detail, rolling it around in his brain before tracing the next few points of interest, as if just by looking he could map every last inch of him.

 

Maybe he could. His eyes were certainly attentive enough, bright enough, analytical enough, and from where Hank was standing, looked like Connor liked what he saw. Then he arched his eyes in silent query, effectively breaking the moment of mutual appreciation.

 

Hank cleared his throat. “Shit. Uh. Come in.”  _ Classy, that _ . “Let me, um.”

 

Connor stepped inside, shrugging out of his coat, leaving it on the hanger by the door, and so much for Hank’s vague plans of proper etiquette. He toed his shoes off, much to Hank’s surprise, but it was definitely in keeping with his own idea of sandy, gravely slush getting dragged into the house.

 

“So. Uh. I made coffee.”

 

Connor smiled again, but then his eyes caught sight of something else entirely. Hank could hear it before his head turned to look. It was Sumo’s tail, thwumping softly against the floor. Connor gestured towards him, asking without words if it was okay to say hi, and Hank couldn’t help a twinge of affection. He nodded, and found his voice again, from wherever it went. “Yeah, yes, sure, of course. Sumo? Come here, boy. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

 

Surprising his owner, Sumo did just that, all 250 pounds of him trotting on over, tail wagging, and Connor crouched on the floor just in time for a headbutt to the chest. It was love at first sight: Sumo did his very best to topple his new friend over, while Connor tried to stay upright, both of them making little huffing noises. Hank realized with a deep seated pang of emotion that this was the first time he’d heard Connor laugh. It was unlike anything he’d ever heard before, and certainly nothing at all what you’d normally expect from someone laughing, but it was precious. It was unique.

 

“Connor, meet Sumo. Sumo, meet Connor. Try not to knock him on his ass, buddy, easy.” He grinned, crouching down beside his...boyfriend? Not-- really. Lover? No. Well, maybe, with the way they’d been kissing since that first time they went out for coffee. It didn’t bear thinking of labels just yet, and Hank had never been fond of those, anyway. Friend would do, for now. He crouched on the floor beside his friend, scruffing the big, overgrown puppy.

 

‘He’s beautiful,’ Connor signed, and Chlo-e translated. ‘Just like his dad. Or...is that presumptuous of me?’

 

It was a touchy topic, or brushing too close to one, but surely Connor didn’t know. Hank shrugged, scratching a spot behind Sumo’s ear, to the big dog’s delight. “Nah, he’s family, alright. My good boy. He keeps me relatively even keeled. Moderately sane. He’s an excellent listener, never breaks a confidence.”

 

Connor smiled, looking between pup and owner. ‘I like dogs.’

 

_ He really is perfect, _ thought Hank with a mental cringe, thinking there had to be a catch somewhere, and probably an ugly one. He could be the guy to prove to Hank his personal rule of not having sex with people on the  _ first _ date was completely inconsequential, that psychopaths hid in plain sight, and if he was going to be brutally dismembered by a hottie of interest it really didn’t matter  _ when _ you invited ‘em into your home. Only that you were stupid enough to invite them in the first place. Or go to their place. Same shit, different location. You never knew who you were getting involved with. His years working homicide had taught him that one too many times, and the fallout was never pretty.

 

Maybe he’d count himself lucky to find out Connor was just a little bit racist, or something equally atrocious. Ugh.  _ Why _ did he think getting involved with people was a good idea, again?

 

‘Earth to Hank,’ said Chlo-e’s helpful voice, teasing. Connor’s eyes were staring at him again, amusement doing wonders to his crow’s feet. ‘You’re miles away.’

 

Hank grinned, feeling self-conscious and paranoid, which was never a good combination. “I was thinking you seem too good to be true,” he said, and it wasn’t strictly speaking a lie. “You like dogs, my boy  _ loves you _ already… How about some coffee, and I can give you a tour of the house. It’s a doozy. There’s two entire rooms you can’t see from here.”

 

His guest nodded, before quite apropos to nothing, cupped Hank’s opposite cheek and pulled him in for a tiny little smooch. The multiplying wing’ed amoebae taking up residence in his chest had never left, but if they had, they’d be back in full swing just from that kiss. It was familiar, speaking of an ease, a kind of comfort Hank didn’t think possible to share with someone after such a short period of time. Things were moving fast, but that was okay. He felt like he’d known Connor for years already.

 

All the same, he felt a bit awkward, or that other word again, self-conscious, as they went through the house, all three of them - living room, kitchen - here’s your coffee, black and strong the way you like it - here’s the bathroom, my garage, but let’s not go in there, it’s full of junk anyway, and…

 

“The bedroom. Nevermind the nightmare mold spreading from that corner over there, I’m sure it’s not toxic.” Cue nervous chuckles, let’s move on--

 

Connor just smiled at him, as if he understood why Hank felt awkward, why he felt the need to make questionable jokes at the expense of the house or himself. They went back to the living room, each taking a seat on the couch. Hank brought the pot of coffee to the table, and the side order of fries and bbq sauce from the takeout he never got around to eating. He was too nervous to eat, but the fries was a good enough excuse to stare at something other than his friend.

 

They talked for a little while, the way people do when they’re thrown face first into the deep end of a new situation - or old, for Hank, but he sure felt like a rookie on his first assignment - about those things they’d already touched upon before, the safe, familiar topics of music and movies, the holidays. Connor didn’t have any plans, and said he always opted for working over the holidays anyway. It was just like any other day for him, and Hank couldn’t help but agree. He didn’t say as much, but especially since his son’s passing, he’d developed something akin to a deep seated loathing of every holiday Cole used to love, and he loved Christmas most of all. Hank hadn’t celebrated Christmas in three years now, and he wasn’t about to start anytime soon.

 

Although, he did have a bit of a stroke of genius mid-conversation. He thought back to something Collins had said, one of those dry remarks he liked to slip into conversation. He’d overheard Hank talking on the phone with Connor, through Chlo-e’s voice, of course, and mistakenly teased him about his lady friend. He even went so far as suggest Hank bring her to the office party not two weeks away, and suddenly it seemed like the best idea  _ ever _ .

 

Then Connor threw him off guard by sticking two of his fingertips into the cup of bbq sauce, and proceeded to touch said fingertips to his tongue. Hank forgot what he was about to say. In fact, if you’d asked him his Christian name right then and there, he couldn’t have told you. All manner of higher brain function seemed to evaporate, leaving nothing but his reptile brain to run the show. Now, Hank had never identified as straight, or gay, or even bi, for that matter. He grew up in a world where there weren’t enough words in the dictionary for any kind of ‘deviant’ sexuality, or expression thereof. He’d never been a sissy, or a lady’s man, or a man’s man (whatever that meant, considering the former term), he’d just...found people attractive, or not. Didn’t matter much what they were born like, or how they looked, where they came from. Fowler used to tease him when they were younger, before either of them were aware of the term ‘pansexual’, saying Hank would try anything once. He wasn’t wrong, Hank liked all kinds of shapes and sizes and colors and variations on any given theme. That wasn’t the issue here.

 

It was more a matter of rediscovering he had a libido at all to speak of, and feeling like a teenaged boy again, under the sudden onslaught of a very insistent boner. Then, of course, there was the question of whether he really wanted to be getting into bed with anyone again (his reptile brain gave an emphatic YES to that question), and if he did, then… Fifty-fuckin-three years old, and he was feeling insecure about his own sexual mettle. That there was a very plausible risk that the mind would be willing, but the rest of him not exactly... _ able _ . Although, as he sat there with his awkward boner, he figured he had at least one evidence to the contrary, re: his performance anxiety.

 

Connor looked like a question mark where he sat. Hank felt the distinct nagging at the back of his head that he’d missed something. “Hm?”

 

‘You zoned out again. Did I do something wrong?’

 

“Oh! No! Uh,”  _ jesusfucking-- _ “No, that’s… Do you always dip your fingers into people’s food, or should I feel special?”

 

The look on Connor’s face spelled out a response that didn’t need vocalizing.  _ Oh _ . ‘I’m sorry. However, you should know the sugar content of that container is the equivalent of a chocolate bar.’

 

“Yeah?”

 

‘And if the caloric content of your fries is indicative of the rest of your meal--’

 

“It probably is, yeah.” Hank began to grin. Of all the things, calories and sugar content? “Don’t tell me you’re some kind of health freak. You go around counting calories all day?”

 

Connor blinked. Licked the rest of the barbecue sauce off his fingers. ‘No. Yes. ...It’s just something I do.’

 

“Uhuh.” Hank stopped himself from staring by grabbing another two fries and shoving them into his mouth. Time to change the topic, perhaps. Back to that brilliant idea of his.

 

“So.” Chew, chew, swallow. Casual, now, steady does it. “Since you don’t have any plans aside from work… Do you...think you’re available for, say, an enchanting evening full of mingling with my co-workers. On the 17th? It’s the annual holiday party, everyone and their plus ones… If you’d like to be my plus one, that is.”

 

It was a gamble, Hank knew. He didn’t know exactly why Connor behaved the way he did, the way he seemed to shrink away, blend into the wallpaper. Kara hadn’t said anything, and he hadn’t asked. Connor was comfortable around him, they enjoyed each other’s company, and that’s all that mattered to Hank. Point being, if it was some kind of social anxiety holding him back, there was nothing Hank could to but try to be supportive. Asking him to go to a party with him, where there’d be dozens and dozens of complete strangers didn’t exactly count towards being supportive. If that were the case. It was early days yet, and Connor would tell him if and when he wanted to share.

 

Like he’d suspected, the question seemed to take Connor off guard. He stared at Hank, not the way he normally did, but with a tension to his face and a new intensity in his eyes. He touched his fingers to his chest, wordlessly indicating himself, eyebrows arched in obvious query.  _ Me? _

 

“Yeah, you,” Hank said, wiping his hands on one of the paper napkins that came with the takeout, then scooted closer on the couch, holding out his left hand. After a moment of consideration, or three, Connor’s hand slipped into his. Like hand in glove.

 

“There’s no one else,” he added. “Just you. I like having you around, and I think that goes both ways… So, you know, if you’d like to meet the people I work with… Fowler will be there. I told you about him.”

 

Connor nodded, letting go of Hank’s hand to sign. ‘Big, bald and badass. Jeffrey Fowler. Captain.’

 

Hank found himself grinning; Connor’s hand returned, fingers stretching and twining with his like a basket weave. “That’s the one. Then there’s Detective Ben Collins, he’s a riot. Good natured, never complains, but he’ll never miss an opportunity to poke fun at his friends and colleagues. Officer Chris Miller, one of our young rising stars. Became a father back in August, you’ll never have seen anyone more proud of his baby. Works just as hard as anyone, even if he isn’t getting any sleep these days. Tina Chen, also a P.O, she’s kickass, but don’t tell her I said that. Oh, and Gavin Reed, detective extraordinaire, God, he’s a total asshat, don’t listen to a thing he says, especially about me--”

 

Hank was cut off by two long, perfectly manicured fingers pressed to his mouth. Connor smiled at him, as if he’d never seen anything so adorable. Hank didn’t know if he should feel embarrassed or mesmerized - and then he nodded, and let his fingers drop, hand cupping both their hands like a hand sandwich. A handwich.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Connor nodded again.

 

“You’ll be my date? My plus one?”

 

Those perfectly spaced eyebrows arched up into a ski slope, and Connor’s three, also perfectly spaced frown lines wrinkled his forehead.  _ Duh _ , in so many words.

 

“Yeah, alright.” Hank grinned, ducking his head. “I heard you the first time.”

 

The answering sigh on its own wasn’t cause for alarm, but when Connor kissed Hank’s knuckles and gave his hand back, that was strange enough that he got a bad feeling about the next thing he signed.

 

‘Why do you do that? Act like I’m talking like a normal person?’

 

These were treacherous waters. Perhaps he’d made the wrong assumptions all along, maybe he’d been an ignorant prick every time he thought everything was fine. Hank frowned, and only barely resisted reach for another few fries. “That isn’t talking like a normal person? I mean, yeah, it was a bit weird talking to you through that app all the time, but I got over it. If Chlo-e helps us talk, I’m fine with her. I just...like it better when you use your hands.”

 

Connor’s steely eyes told him that was  _ not _ the way to go, and a split second later he realized his Freudian slip. “ _ Sign! _ I like it better when you  _ sign _ , sorry,  _ God _ \--” Speaking of ‘talking like a normal person’, he couldn’t talk for shit.

 

‘I  _ can _ talk,” said Chlo-e’s voice, insistent, sounding as annoyed as Connor looked. ‘There’s nothing physically the matter with me. But you act like it’s perfectly normal. Why?’

 

Hank shrugged, feeling put on the spot, but Connor insisted on getting answers. “I thought it  _ was  _ perfectly normal. I know you don’t have a hearing impairment, well, nothing major--”

 

‘There’s nothing wrong with my hearing,’ Connor cut him off.

 

“Yes, alright, will you just let me get to the point?”

 

For the first time since they’d known each other, the room filled with a tense silence. Thick enough you could cut it with a knife. In one word: oppressive - but that wasn’t about to stop Hank. Connor may be stubborn, but Hank had almost double the experience in that department.

 

“I know you can hear. You listen to music all the time, we’ve talked for hours about that shit, easy. So that’s not a problem. I don’t know why you don’t use your voice, if that’s what you mean by talking, but… I didn’t think that was a problem, either. You never hesitate to tell me exactly what you think, anyway. And the way you move when you talk to me? The way you move your hands, the way your face lights up… It doesn’t do that when you text me. Because that’s...just words on a screen, I guess. But when you really  _ talk _ to me?”

 

He found himself shrugging again. “ _ That _ ’s beautiful. And I can talk to you like no one else I know. No bullshit, no beating around the bush, no hurt feelings because we don’t agree on every last little thing. You make me laugh. I make you grin… It’s worked out so far, hasn’t it?”

 

Connor nodded, but the reluctance was almost tangible. Hank could see it in the tense line of his shoulders. “So...talk to me. Tell me what’s really bothering you.”

 

He sighed, and snagged the little container of sauce from the table, proceeding to scrape it clean with his fingers. Hank averted his eyes, grabbing the entire plate of fries. For a while neither one of them said anything, each hiding behind the creature comfort unique to junk food.

 

Connor finished first, no surprise there, but as he sat there licking his fingers, slumped into Hank’s couch, the last thing on Hank’s mind, at least, was sex. He had a very vivid flashback to the first time they met, when Connor very literally bounced off him, and all he could feel was protective towards a guy he’d never met before. It had been a very insistent impulse back then, weeks ago now, and it was only worsened by the fact he’d come to know the guy.

 

Ha. The Guy. John Doe-Eyes.

 

Doe-Eyes looked miserable, scrunching up one of the paper napkins, then just leaving his hands there, loosely clasped in his lap. He shrugged, and for the first time since their first date, picked up his phone to type what he wanted to say. Reverting to old habits, maybe, or sounding a retreat to safer ground.

 

|  _ I had a twin brother. He was outgoing, charming, not afraid of anything, _ | Chlo-e said, as morose as the one picking out the words on the touch screen. |  _ Whenever we were together I felt like we were one and the same. It didn’t matter that I was quiet, or didn’t understand why people say one thing and mean something else, because he was always there. I could always look to him, see how he responded to things. We were two sides of the same coin. _ |

 

That bad feeling he got never really left. Hank listened with a tight knot forming in his chest. He was afraid to ask, but he felt he had to. “...what happened?”

 

Connor shrugged again, his mouth a thin line and his eyes looking off somewhere else for a long time. His fingers stilled over his phone. His breath came in jagged little intervals, long pauses in between, in and out through his nose in tiny puffs of air. He shook his head at something, quite possibly himself, and resumed his tapping on the screen.

 

|  _ He died. _ |

 

Hank was no stranger to death: the death of strangers, the kind he faced every day in his line of work, in his nightmares; the death of a loved one, family - his grandparents, parents, his son. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to have a twin, but he’d seen enough in his life to know that special bond between twins wasn’t just poetic nonsense. He’d lost his own flesh and blood, and while it didn’t compare, it had to come close enough. He had an inkling, and if this was Connor’s way of preambling… Hank put away the fries and turned on the couch cushion, folding one of his legs. He didn’t know if he should reach out, but he figured facing him was as good a start as any.

 

“I’m sorry. Connor-- Honey, I’m so sorry.”

 

Another headshake. Deflection or denial. |  _ We were eight. We were days away from our ninth birthday. I didn’t… I didn’t want to talk anymore. We had the same voice, we talked the same, we… We used to switch places with each other, try to trick our friends, the teachers… But then there was just me. I didn’t see the point. _ |

 

Hank stayed quiet, employing one of his favorite tactics to get someone to open up about things. He just didn’t know whether to feel like a jerk or a good friend when it worked.

 

|  _ But it’s been so long. He’s never coming back, and… I keep thinking I--  _ |

 

_ Yes? Go on. _ Hank tried to will him to keep talking. He nodded, hoping he looked encouraging rather than completely coo coo.

 

|  _ On the one hand, I want to know what it’s like. What my voice sounds like, what I could do with it. Could it command armies? Just kidding. But… I’d like to be able to sing along to the songs I love, even if I sound horrible. Just, say Hi to people. Call out to someone across the room.  _ |

 

“...and on the other hand?”

 

|  _ I don’t feel like I deserve it. I feel guilty for wanting to speak using my voice when there are other ways to communicate, and they’re all as valid means as the next. Like you said, there’s nothing abnormal about ASL. I just, I know so many languages, but I can’t speak them, because I’ve never tried and I want… _ |

 

Hank nodded. He got the sentiment well enough, alright. Not the bit about being multilingual - he could make himself understood in a handful of languages with basic phrases and a lot of gesturing, but being fluent? That was-- kind of amazing.

 

|  _ I feel like such a fraud. I’ve been in therapy for months, and I’m not making any progress. I’m… _ | He sighed, shaking his head again, staring at his phone. |  _ I’m scared. What if I never get past this? And if I do, what if I don’t like my voice? _ |

 

As far as difficult questions went, this was one that Hank had never encountered in his life thus far. There were no easy answers, and he couldn’t think of a single thing that had prepared him for this moment - having someone so incredibly significant ask you something so out of this world, so left field. He had to find the right words, somehow, and the only way he knew to do that was listen to his own heart. What if Connor didn’t like his own voice? What if he never really worked past his fears?

 

Hank certainly knew which scenario he’d prefer. He reached out, wanting to take one of Connor’s hands again, but settled for stroking the backs of his fingers down Connor’s arm. “You probably won’t like it, at first. You haven’t used it since you were eight years old, you’re bound to sound...different than what you remember. You haven’t had to listen to it changing with puberty, but you didn’t miss out, trust me.” He dared a smile; Connor stared openly at him, hanging on to every word.

 

“Point is, if you want to know what your voice would sound like  _ now _ , you’re gonna have to work for it. Right? I mean, if you don’t use any kind of muscle group, it grows weak, huh? So, you’re gonna have to build it up from scratch. I’m guessing it won’t be easy, but nothing worthwhile is ever easy--”

 

Connor cut him off with the simplest touch, something so unexpected it stole Hank’s voice away: just the soft touch of his hand, gliding to cover the front of his throat, fingertips tickling over his stubble.

 

“Nothing worthwhile is ever easy,” Hank said again, and Connor’s eyes were glued to his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his gentle touch. “Not to mention change is scary. Real scary. But…”  _ But _ , he was going out on a limb, here, and he didn’t know if he should chicken out or go for it.

 

Connor removed his hand, mirroring the touch on his own throat, covering his own Adam’s apple. Swallowed.

 

Hank was mesmerized, and terrified, throat closed up over a lump of emotion. He had to go for it, no matter how much he abhorred talking about  _ feelings _ . Change was terrifying, but it had nothing on baring yourself even the slightest, and risk rejection. “You don’t have to go through this alone. I’m, I’m right here, if you need me. Or, you know, want me. As a friend or...anything else. Someone to sing in the car with, even if it sounds godawful. Or...someone to just listen. Someone to practice with. Do voice exercises with. Anything.”

 

Sumo’s tail thump-thumped against the floor by the fireplace, where he’d set up a guard post, watching them very intently for the past ten minutes. As far as staring went, he was giving Connor a run for his money, but there was only one set of eyes Hank cared about right this minute. Connor’s eyes were bright, and though he didn’t say a word the look on his face said more than a thousand words. His eyes were brimming with emotion, until he simply crawled on all fours along the couch and curled up in Hank’s lap, like a man-sized pretzel against his chest. He hugged him close, heart close to bursting.

 

Hank played his digital mixtape, and they lay curled up on the couch listening to ridiculous love songs and heavy metal ballads and everything in between until Connor had fallen asleep with his ear pressed over his heart. In his sleep, there was nothing keeping Connor from using his voice, and with every tiny little exhale, there was a tiny little humming sound. Not snores, not words, just...these small huffs of sound. “Hn… Hmn… Huh-n...”

 

Even with all his worrying, all the stress leading up to this evening, all the rampant insecurities, it was the best date Hank had ever had.


	4. Footsteps in the Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday night, Hank shows up for Connor's ASL class, which ends up landing him a bit of a revelation as well. Later, emotion (and untreated anxiety) gets the better of Connor. Luckily, Hank isn't one to judge, and Sumo really is the best listener around.
> 
> After a very small amount of persuasion, Hank shares his frustrations with Connor, regarding the puzzling case of a victim found dead in his home, stabbed some 28 times in total.
> 
> And in the midst of all this, Amanda makes a call. There has been a development, and there is cause for concern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a bit of French translation in this chapter, and if it isn't quite as poetic as the original I do apologize. I am a huge Édith Piaf fan, and that song means a lot to me no matter whose version it is - but I had to go with this version for the story. Any flaws with regards to translation is on me. <3
> 
> Also, beware: this chapter is full of angst, and a fair bit of fluff. If neither float your boat, this is not the fic for you ;) I hope you enjoy it, just the same.

* * *

 

 

The weekend that followed was like living a dream, filled with all these little first times that rarely seemed to mean that much to other people: no one ever made movies about the first time you fell asleep in someone’s arms because you felt safer than you had in years; no one wrote stories about the morning after a completely sober evening; no one sang songs about kissing someone chastely for the nth time. It was yet another piece of evidence that Connor wasn’t like other people, but it didn’t matter. He had stopped caring what other people thought of him a very long time ago, but now it seemed to matter even less, because for the first time in years he had someone in his life who viewed the world in a similar way.

 

Hank. Grumpy, gray and frayed around the edges, never afraid to speak his mind and fuck whoever thought he was a bitch. And the way he  _ cursed _ sometimes made Connor smile and shake his head. Hank wasn’t like other people either. He was perfect.

 

Realistically speaking, Connor knew there was no such thing as perfection, that it was an ideal that nature strived for but never really achieved - and that was  _ okay _ . For once he wasn’t being literal, and more importantly, he understood the sentiment. Hank may not be  _ perfect _ , in the lexical meaning of the word, but he was just right in every way, for him.

 

Sunday morning Hank made a breakfast of toast and more coffee, and only nudged him a little bit when he cleared his plate in under ten seconds. Who knew emotional vulnerability could leave you positively ravenous? They took Sumo for a walk, and when they came back, Hank offered to drop him off wherever on his way to work. They listened to the heaviest of heavy metal in the car, and there were no demands of any kind on Hank’s part, no prying questions or suggestions, just this incredible warmth to his smile and the kiss they shared outside Connor’s apartment building. For the rest of that day, Connor felt like he was floating in the air, or dancing from one bright star to the next, he felt like  _ dancing _ , and he’d never danced once in his entire life (not counting the one time he could recall, ‘dancing’ with his tiny feet resting on an indulgent parent’s shoes) - but even with the texts of pure joy that went back and forth between them whenever Hank could spare a moment for committing atrocities to the English language, the following Monday was in a league of its own.

 

That evening, just as Connor was getting ready at the school, Hank showed up for ASL class.

  
  


***

 

“Right this way, Lieutenant,” said Amanda, hands clasped below her sternum as she showed Connor’s newest pupil down the hall. She gestured with one elegant sweep of her hand as they came to a stop at one of the many man made wooden ‘intersections’ of the vast building. It wasn't the biggest of schools or universities around, but she’d always been fond of it. The building itself was a refuge, named once upon a long time ago for the Biblical city of Jericho, the first to fall to the descendants of Israel after they crossed the Red Sea through holy intervention - it was a sanctuary for all who needed it, although with less bloodshed than the legendary battle of its namesake. It had been an institution in more ways than one to the city of Detroit, expanding on the idea that education shouldn’t be reserved for those of ample monetary means. Anyone and everyone was welcome, be it for their more conventional programs, or open seminars or, in this case, evening classes. The ‘red thread’, or least common denominator of all their courses was that they didn’t cost a fortune. In this day and age money was hard enough to come by without having to take out loans in order to strive for higher education, and/or a better life. Their students went out into the world, equipped with new knowledge, perhaps just enough of it to change the future.

 

Connor was one of their more successful part time tutors, not only through his knowledge and ability to relay it, but because...he wasn’t quite like other people. He was special, unconventional, just like his style of education. Amanda could only imagine what this DPD lieutenant would think of it. If she didn’t know better, he seemed...agitated. Nervous.

 

“It’s down the hallway, last classroom on the right. You can’t miss it.”

 

“Thanks,” said Lieutenant Anderson, eyes glued to the end of the hall already. “Thank you, professor Stern.”

 

Just then the door opened, and out came the aforementioned tutor of unconventional means, headphones in (as nearly always), signing along to whatever music he was listening to. Amanda smiled at the sight: unorthodox indeed, but charming, like catching a boy with his hand down the cookie jar. She glanced at the man beside her, surprised to see the way his eyes brightened, how his entire face seemed to lift into a smile.

 

So they knew each other.

 

Her eyes cut from Anderson to her mentee, her protegé of sorts, narrowing incrementally.

 

“Hey! Connor!”

 

...at least the lieutenant wasn’t playing coy, the way he waved even as he started moving towards the young man.

 

“CONNOR! ...jesuschr-- Oi!”

 

She could see the moment Connor caught the movement in his peripheral vision, and it was a sight to behold. His eyes widened like those oft referenced saucers, and they were big, brown, and boggled.

 

“Hh--!”

 

He breathed sound, for the first time she had ever heard, and she’d known him since February. She blinked, slowly, observing from a distance as Connor’s face split into an unguarded grin, and the two men went in for a hug.

 

Then, of course, Chlo-e stepped in, as she always did, when she was most needed, the moment Connor stepped away and his hands went flying. ‘Hank! What are you doing here?!’

 

“Eh, it’s…” Anderson shrugged, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. “I thought, well, you know, I figured if you’re gonna try learning how to use your voice, I...might as well learn how to ‘use my hands’. You know?”

 

Amanda watched in silence, her mouth a set of angular lines against her chiseled  features. She had seen enough.

  
  


***

 

Connor could scarcely draw breath for the pressure building in his chest - Hank, here, of  _ all places in the world _ , he’d come here, to… It defied all logic. No. It defied gravity, it defied the physical laws of forward motion, and energy, and light, because for no tangible reason he felt like a kid again, like that lonely boy watching clips of the original London cast of the Boy George musical on WeTube (not because he had much of an idea who this other Boy was, or why he was significant, but because the songs were pretty, and the stage was tiny, and the colors were magnetic). He’d been the loneliest boy in the world, for so long, and through some miracle of biology he’d grown into the loneliest man - but not anymore. He could see himself for miles now, and he wasn’t afraid anymore.

 

He’d never had anyone in his life who wanted to learn a whole new language, just for him. For them.

 

‘Not just for us, surely?’ he asked, in Chlo-e’s hesitant voice. His hands seemed to shiver, or tremble.

 

Hank shrugged again, brushing his hands down Connor’s arms, perfectly parallel to each other. Symmetrical. He liked that. Even if it made his throat close over completely.

 

“I know we’re moving fast in some ways,” Hank said, looking between his eyes and his tie. Out of nowhere his hands moved to neaten it, smooth it down his shirt; it nearly made Connor hiccup with surprise. He nodded.

 

“But sometimes fast is good. Means you’re not wasting time worrying about shit. You’re...seizing the moment. Carpe diem, zen bullshit, I know, but… Trust me when I say sometimes it’s better to rush into things than regret never getting ‘round to doing ‘em. And… I’m not a flowers guy. Or fancy dinners, candlelight crap. I don’t mind ‘em, it’s just not my thing. But this? If I can just get my ass in gear, we can use this. Every day.”

 

Might be the significance of the moment dawned on him, or perhaps it was as Connor suspected, that his own emotional tells were too obvious, but Hank added a devilish grin. “But now you mention it, I’m sure it’ll come in handy at the station. I can pass on the skills, we can use it in the field, and the perps’ll never know what hit ‘em.”

 

It wasn’t a completely terrible joke, but as far as jokes went it didn’t really matter. Connor’s general view of jokes was that the worse they were, the more people seemed able to bond over how awful they were. It seemed to work for most people, so why not? For what it’s worth, it made Connor’s lips tug into a wavering smile. He shook his head, blinking at the ceiling.

 

‘Come on,’ he signed. ‘You’re early, which is commendable. Come in.’

 

“Alright. Lead the way.”

 

The classroom itself was reserved for smaller groups, equipped and set up according to Connor’s specifications. First order of business was getting Hank a tablet of his own, and berate him for getting the idea to join the class at the  _ end of term _ , and what in the world did he think he could possibly learn from this stage - but Hank just grinned, playing along with the teasing.

 

“Hey, I’m smarter than I look! S-M-R-T. Huh?”

 

The (probable) pop culture reference was lost on Connor, but he didn’t mind. ‘I suppose it’ll give us the opportunity to work on your grammar and spelling.’

 

“Yeah... “

 

Connor looked up at the tentative note to that perfectly audible ellipsis. Hank seemed uncertain of himself, if the scrunched up brow was anything to go by. Connor arched his own eyebrows, giving him a non-verbal cue to go on.

 

“I hope this wasn’t a bad idea. I mean, I figured I could ask if it was okay to audit your class, and maybe I could sign up for the beginner course next term? Professor Stern says everyone’s welcome to audit…”

 

But it wasn’t Professor Stern’s permission he really wanted, was it? Connor wondered at the mysteries of life, and how such an obviously grown man could seem so small. He allowed himself a small smile, and brushed both his hands down Hank’s bristly cheeks, happy to see it made the uncertainty fade from his eyes.

 

‘And. We always welcome new students. The universe is ever expanding, after all.’

 

“That doesn’t even make sense.”  _ Dork _ , he seemed to say, in the angle of his grin.

 

Connor kissed the corner of his mouth, pressing a tablet to his chest. ‘School property. Don’t lose it.’

 

“It won’t be awkward for you? Having me here?”

 

Connor turned his back, checking that everything was in order, one last time. His students would be getting here shortly. So that’s what Hank was really worried about: them, their status? What Connor’s class would think of him? Or simply the risk of proving to be a distraction? Inconsequential, but if it mattered to Hank, perhaps it should matter to him.

 

‘I expect you to apply yourself,’ he said, with a bit of help from Chlo-e. ‘I will be very disappointed in you if you don’t prepare for next term. Things will get very awkward, then… But aside from that? No.’

 

He could hear Hank’s smile in his voice without needing to look over his shoulder. Not that he ever truly  _ needed _ visual confirmation. He could just close his eyes and see the room and everyone in it, a 3D grid full of shiny points of interest.

 

“I want to learn as much as I can, as fast as I can, or I wouldn’t be here. It  _ wounds me _ that you’d think otherwise.”

 

Connor grinned at the holographic screen in front of him. ‘In that case, I expect you to be top of my class by the end of spring term.’

  
  


***

 

Whatever Hank had imagined, it was nothing compared to real life, to sit there right in the middle of a room full of students from all over the state. He’d been expecting to be the oldest guy in the room, but he had to check his negative bias. With births dwindling, and first time parents getting successively older, he found himself sitting next to a couple only a few years younger than himself. There was a granny in the mix as well, determined to learn ASL so she could speak to her grandchild over vidphone, and fiercely proud of being able to learn a new language ‘at her age’. There were younger people there, too, veritable kids in their twenties, everything from sweethearts to best friends, to partners.

 

He didn’t feel too much like the odd one out, and hardly anyone had batted so much as one eyelash when Connor introduced him as his ‘new friend, who wants to learn ASL as quickly as possible’, and told his class to ‘give him all you got, no holding back, he can take it’. Quite the contrary, people were friendlier than he felt he deserved - just for knowing the focal point of the room. And boy, was Connor the focal point - everyone looked to him, everyone was attentive, asking questions about tricky signs or how to best get a point across, how to phrase things, articulate things - and Hank couldn’t take his eyes away.

 

But the best part was a bit into the hour-and-a-half, when Connor called a halt to proceedings and told everyone to grab some coffee or tea from the table at the back (reminded Hank of his AA meetings with Kara and the others), and he brought up a playlist on the screen behind him. Suddenly the room was buzzing with excitement.

 

Connor looked up from his tablet, eyes glowing and zooming in without fault, meeting Hank’s (possibly lovestruck) gaze. |  _ This’ll come in handy for you, Hank, no pun intended. _ | Chlo-e said, while Connor multitasked away, tapping out words for her to relay, and picking out songs and lyrics for the board.

 

|  _ You love music. But even if you didn’t, music is an excellent way to learn a new language. Most pop songs are repetitive in nature, and they use commonly occuring phrases and words. Every Monday, we pick a song from this list, look at the lyrics, and pick out sections to learn, or interpret. Next Monday, we have a bit of fun, singing, and signing, together. Whoever’s best in class gets to pick next week’s song. _ |

 

“Rinse and repeat,” one of the students called out, and Connor nodded affirmative.

 

|  _ Yes, Michael - and how would you sign that phrase?  _ |

 

As it turned out, it was the oldest woman in class who had picked the song, and she was stoked. Her eyes lit up as the first few bars blasted through the speakers. Hank recognized it as one he never really  _ got _ , back when it was released some twenty-five years ago, for an animated movie or ...something? It seemed every summer for years to come, you couldn’t escape the goddamn song. Happy. All sunshine and hot air balloons, was it?  _ Eugh _ .

 

Hank shook his head and sipped his coffee, thinking he’d have to put on one of those polite faces he so utterly hated, but as he looked at everyone’s smiling, eager, awkward faces, signing along to the lyrics of a song he used to find so utterly irritating, he couldn’t help but listen to it in a way he never had, back then.

 

Connor moved through the room, like a conductor, or a maestro, signing as he went, and he. was. Breathtaking.

 

_ It might seem crazy what I’m ‘bout to say; sunshine she’s here, time to take a break; I’m a hot air balloon, I could go to space; with the air, like I don’t care, baby, by the way… _

 

He had an air about him that matched the song perfectly, and he had swagger, and rhythm, and a confidence that Hank hadn’t seen in him outside of this classroom.

 

_ Because I’m happy… _

 

And as he moved through the room, Hank’s eyes moved with him, from one person to the next, and everyone signed the words differently - they used the same motions, but not necessarily the same sequences - head tilts and nods and frowns and lifted eyebrows and mouth movements. The more he watched the more apparent it became to him that each and every one of the students had different voices. It was the first time he’d ever considered that a voice could be anything but what came out through your vocal chords, and it was fascinating. Body language was one thing, but this was something else. Everyone was different, everyone had different energies (and Hank had never, not once in his life subscribed to chakras or energy fields or anything except for in the purely metaphorical sense), and the music seemed to  _ move through them _ in different ways.

 

Grandma Nico was electric, her gestures snappy, full of pow; Michael was more laidback, the evergreen ‘cool kid’ closing in on his forties; the sweetheart partners had eyes for nobody else in the room, signing in perfect, turtledove sync with each other; and Connor was-- poetry in motion. Clean, elegant, precise. Animated, every last bit of him, head to toe.

 

Fifty-three years of living on this planet, and he had never seen anything like this before. It left him feeling uplifted, happy, like the name of the song, and unexpectedly sad at the same time.

 

Cole would have loved this. He would have loved to see this, live this moment.

  
  


***

  
  


While the automated, purely cosmetic dial tone rang in her earpiece, Amanda sipped her Rooibos, and looked out into her beloved zen garden. It was too cold to go out there at this time of night, but when she stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of her office, she felt comfortably connected to it. Her garden was the nave of her operations, her command center. There was nothing she couldn’t get done, as long as she had access to it.

 

The call connected; her fingers curled more tightly around the fine ceramic cup. “There’s been a development,” she said, always to the point. “Did you get the file I compiled for you? Good.”

 

She nodded. Sipped her tea. “It is too early to make a complete risk assessment, but if this spreads… I don’t need to advise you on the risks.”

 

Her eyebrows arced, twin lines, perfectly angular above her occipital bone. “Follow standard operating procedure. I want to know the minute anything changes.”

 

Her eyes looked to the chessboard on her desk, and she crossed the short distance with measured steps. She wondered at the game ahead, who would play which part, who would run a gambit? Who would fall victim to their own doubts, or let their ego get in the way?

 

She reached up to her earpiece, tapping it to end the call. There were dark clouds on the horizon, thunder rumbling at the back of her mind, but no cause for making  _ decisions  _ just yet. It was far preferable to observe, for now, and prepare for the coming storm, the game at hand.

 

After all, Amanda Stern was all about gaining the tactical advantage before making her position known.

  
  


***

 

Once again, Connor and Hank found themselves walking down the streets of Detroit late at night, abuzz with energy and light that seemed to shine from within. Connor could certainly feel it. Just being around the other man made him feel warm on the inside, like glowing embers in the dark just waiting to go up in flames. Especially tonight, he felt invincible. Unstoppable. With Hank, he didn’t have to constantly pick and choose his words, he wasn’t afraid to say the wrong thing - because with Hank, there was no such thing. Sometimes they argued about things, sure, but Hank never held his opinions against him (except, perhaps, in a purely friendly manner. He was beginning to discover just what a  _ tease _ Hank could be, if he was in a good mood). Even if they disagreed on something, it was never the end of the world. The more they talked, the more Connor felt like he  _ wanted to _ , and he realized just how much he’d held himself back in the past twenty years.

 

He’d never been on a date before Hank, never kissed anyone, never fallen asleep in someone’s arms (as an adult. That distinction was important), never wanted to get involved in anything even remotely resembling a relationship. Hank was different. He felt alive whenever they shared space, and sometimes just catching sight of him made Connor’s larynx bob up and down. It didn’t make sense.

 

Something else that didn’t make any sense was that all those ridiculous love song lyrics he used to ignore, now they spoke to him, loud and clear, ruthless, unforgiving. He could be listening to songs he’d heard a thousand times before, and suddenly it was like, say, Annie Lennox was having a private conversation with him. It was Goldfrapp all over again, but invasive and distressing, frightening and...absolutely wonderful. Because--

 

Because he had an inkling Hank was having the same surreal experience with every song he listened to, these days. Not only that, but because Connor knew so many languages, he could introduce Hank to a whole new world of music. It always made him smile, and the gap between his front teeth seemed to tickle Connor’s spine, just by making an appearance.

 

“How come you know so much, huh?” Hank asked him, walking along slower than necessary to the nearest bus stop. It had become a bit of a tradition after their dates, that Hank saw him off at the bus stop. Tonight certainly felt like a date, and Connor was feeling uncharacteristically bubbly on the inside. He was positively ready to burst with pent up emotion. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so happy, anxious and nauseous at the same time.

 

‘About?’

 

“About? About  _ everything _ !” Hank exclaimed through a big, happy grin. “You’re like a walking encyclopedia! No, better. You’re Oogle incarnate. I could ask you about anything, and I bet you’d have an answer. Literature, science,  _ languages _ , holy  _ shit _ .”

 

‘You know I don’t approve of gambling,’ Connor teased, and for a step or two they leaned into each other sideways, swaying like daffodils in spring.

 

“Eh, shut up,” said Hank, but Connor knew for a fact he didn’t mean it. He proved him right on the next exhale, too. “Alright. I pick a song, from anywhere in the world, and you prove to me you don’t know the words. Simple.”

 

Connor pursed his lips, reaching up to tap his chin, then looked up at his beloved dork and gave him a decisive nod. Game on.

 

“ _ Yesss! _ Okay.”

 

Hank got out his phone, brought up his Simplify app and thumbed at the screen to find something he deemed enough of a challenge. Connor mock peeked, and Hank mock pulled the phone out of view.

 

“Here we are… You know the English one,  _ I’m sure _ , but what about the French one? Huh?”

 

‘Do you know the French one?’ Connor asked as music began to pour from the phone’s substandard speakers.

 

Hank chortled, or sporfled, shaking his head. “No, but I don’t need to. You can’t fool me. You know it, I’ll know you know. You don’t, I’ll call your bullshit.”

 

As far as silly games went, Connor could live with the stipulated rules. Hank was right, though, Connor was terrible at telling even the whitest lie. Like so many other unwritten rules of society, Connor had never seen the benefits of not telling the truth. He didn’t buy the argument that it was sometimes kinder to lie, to spare someone’s feelings. Most of the time, if he felt obligated to tell a lie, he’d much rather not say anything at all.

 

As the immortal phrasings of  _ la môme _ herself reached his ears, he realized how easily he could tell the truth, and not really tell Hank how he felt. It was  _ Autumn Leaves _ , in Èdith Piaf’s very own rendition, part of it sung in her native tongue -  and Hank just said he didn’t know the words.  _ Les Feuilles mortes _ … The dead leaves...

 

Connor smiled, listening to the song for the first time, and signed the words with downcast eyes.

 

_ C’est une chanson, qui nous ressemble, _

_ Toi qui m’aimais, moi qui t’aimais _

_ Nous vivions tous les deux ensemble, _

_ Toi qui m’aimais, moi qui t’aimais... _

 

‘This is a song, about the two of us; You who love me, I who love you; We live, the two of us, always together; You who love me, I who love you…

 

‘But life separates those who love, softly, gently, without making a sound...

And the footprints left in the sand by lovers torn apart, the Sea wipes away…’

 

For the first time in recorded history, or in the considerable time since Connor had downloaded and changed Chlo-e’s coding, she was quiet and still. She didn’t make a sound. Sometimes he could swear she knew what he was thinking, and when he didn’t want her to relay his words. It was probably just his own imagination. Humans were wont to flights of fancy, after all. Apps rarely ever were...

 

Hank watched him, he could tell even if he didn’t look at him directly: in the way their steps slowed with the music, in the quiet air about him. 

 

The little sparrow, as she was called to this day, shifted from French to English effortlessly, but Connor faltered where he shouldn’t. She sang of falling leaves, of lips and summer kisses and sunburned hands she used to hold - and he felt at such a loss. He’d never experienced a loss like that before, and the prospect terrified him - not simply the risk of Hank’s career path, but the seemingly more immediate threat that he’d simply realize he’d made a mistake. Connor wasn’t as interesting as he thought, and all his charms were fake, and his so-called flirting (horrible and crude and insinuating) belied his rampant inexperience. Hank would find out, and he would leave - and before his mind’s eye a million branches branched off of one another, and again, and again, events multiplying until he felt sick.

 

The song went on, sentimental and  _ awful _ \--

 

Hank’s thumb brushed his chin, fingers fanning out to caress his cheek - warm, gentle - and when Connor dared to look, Hank’s eyes seemed to say he understood. Whatever it was, he understood. Their lips met - warm, gentle - and Connor’s hands found their way under Hank’s winter coat, under his arms, to hold on, feel his broad back under his fingers.

 

No questions asked, Hank simply enveloped him in a hug, those substantial, real, tangible arms of his closing around Connor’s back. He kissed his cheek, and it felt bristly and soft at the same time, brushing over his skin. He’d never have imagined feeling safe could be so painful.

 

“How about...” Hank murmured into his ear once the song finally ended; he didn’t use autoplay, which seemed like a blessing, because who knew what would’ve been next on that playlist.

 

“We go back to my place, I make tea or something, and you can tell Sumo all about it. Hm? Remember I told you he’s an excellent listener?”

 

Connor nodded, struggling to breathe - something was happening to his face, it was contorting in ways that hurt and no matter what he did to put it back together, it happened again. He felt like a Grecian theater mask, unable to smile, one mask short of a full set. His vision blurred with white hot tears, and he clamped his hands over his mouth to hide it. Hide, period.

 

“Alright,” said Hank - warm, gentle - and began to steer them in the other direction, back to his car, with Connor tucked away under his arm and half his coat.

  
  


***

 

The drive back to Sterling Heights was the longest forty minutes Hank’d ever known. Dire Straits played from the speakers, because they were Dire Straits, and as far removed from Edith Piaf as was physically possible, but it seemed to do little for Connor’s state of mind.

 

He sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, tears streaming down an otherwise stoic face. Every now and then, movement, and Hank would glance over, increasingly worried every time he saw him cover his mouth with his hand, the rest of his face twisting with pain.

 

Hank still didn’t know why Connor was seeing Kara, aside from the issues he had already told him, and it seemed to him that the loss of his brother might be the root of it all but this was a whole different branch off that tree. He hadn’t asked, wasn’t going to, wasn’t his business, and he knew she wouldn’t betray her confidence: that was old news. While it was true he’d had flights of crazy thoughts regarding the notion of potentially inviting homicidal maniacs into one’s home, that had nothing to do with Connor seeing a therapist. It had everything to do with Hank’s having worked homicide for the better part of the last decade, and nothing to do with the heartbroken man in his passenger seat.

 

He didn’t know if he could do anything to help, as in, he knew he didn’t have the skill set to cure Connor of whatever he needed help with, be it grief counseling or vocal coaching or…  _ But…  _ He could  _ not _ let the guy go home alone on the bus. He  _ could  _ be a friend - that term again, but it still fit. Friends could be lovers, with or without sex ever entering the picture. Right? Love was such an all encompassing term, it had to have room for what they were to each other. They were on the same page so far, whatever this was - and whatever the magnitude, so to speak, Hank wasn’t going to leave someone who felt so obviously shitty. He had enough experience wanting to be alone to know how easy it was to do stupid shit when no one was there to shake their head ‘no’ at you.

 

It was easy, when you looked at it that way. He could only go by his own coping mechanisms, and they were such utter crap - but maybe if he’d been strong enough to ask for help after Cole died, strong enough to  _ want the help _ …

 

Well. Here they were, and Hank would be kicking himself forever if he didn’t do something. Even if it was just tea, and shutting his mouth for a while.

 

“Here we are.”

 

Looking over, Connor’s face was a mask of anguish. Phantom pangs closed around Hank’s sternum, spreading all the way up to his jaw hinges. He swallowed against a tightness of his own throat. “Let’s go inside. Come on, seatbelt off, let’s go.”

 

Connor followed him into the house; Hank took his jacket, he toed off his shoes, and when Sumo trotted over happily at the sight of him, he crouched on the floor. Hank watched it like a memory was playing out before him. Had it only been two days since he watched Sumo headbutt his new friend like they’d known each other since he was a puppy? Just two days, and how things had changed. Connor didn’t laugh this time around, but started crying into Sumo’s thick coat of fur.

 

Listening to the wet huffs of air, Hank cursed to himself in his own head. What the  _ fuck _ could he  _ do _ to...change anything? Make tea, or wrap up dog and dog’s best friend in a group hug?

 

He blinked furiously at the ceiling for a moment, but when he looked at them again, Sumo obviously had things covered. Maybe it was better to give them some space, like he’d promised he would. He shrugged out of his coat, left it on the coat rack next to Connor’s, left his shoes by the door, and went to make good on that other promise: tea.

 

Water boiling, Hank decided to do what he could to figure out exactly what had happened, if there was something about that song that...triggered some sort of bad spark. To his eternal dismay, there were no translations that seemed to explain, so he ended up picking out word by word and running them through an online translator. The English version was easy enough, of course, it was melancholy and blue, someone reminiscing on love lost - he’d heard it a million times when he grew up. His mother loved Nat King Cole, the classic crooners and everything Big Band style, his dad was a jazz fan, so the house had been filled with all kinds of music...but he’d never heard this version. Even the English lyrics seemed...sadder than he remembered them, the way she sang it. You could hear the emotion in her voice, the loss, the regrets of what might have been.

 

His mom used to say with fondness that Nat King Cole always used to sing with a smile on his face - and perhaps that’s the key to that mystery: he’d never thought it was all that sad, growing up. The way Edith sang it, in front of a live audience, you could positively hear the emotion on her face. Evocative. Haunting.

 

The French lyrics were somehow worse: simple imagery, but poetic, depicting a relationship that ends suddenly, no trace left that it ever existed. All the evidence washed away by the sea.

 

Was that the...source of Connor’s pain? The crushing end of something you thought would last forever? He didn’t want to speculate. He couldn’t just up and ask him, ‘so, bad breakup, huh?’. He wasn’t stupid. But… You wouldn’t usually go from  _ Happy _ , to soul crushing despair if there wasn’t something hiding beneath the surface.

 

Tea. He made tea, the spiced chai variety he’d taken a shine to after their first date, dosing it up with way too much sugar and milk. He brought the mugs to the coffee table, sat them down.

 

Connor was still crying, and Hank told himself he’d given the poor man enough space already - and what was he doing, worrying about  _ space _ when he had someone crying their heart out on his living room  _ floor _ . GodDAMNit. He went over, telling Sumo with a nudge that he was taking it from here, got to his knees on the floor and gathered the man he loved up in a tight hug, saying “Shh, I’m here, I got you, I gotcha, we can just sit here for a while. Aw, honey, shh, I got you,” and rocking him side to side.

 

It didn’t work, from Hank’s perspective. In fact, for a moment, he feared he’d only made things worse, because Connor started making noises like he was dying - tiny, whimpering sobs that were miraculous in their own right for someone who hadn’t used their vocal chords since childhood, but those sounds grew, and morphed, and festered, until he was nearly screaming into Hank’s chest, if not for a lack of air. His voice, such as it was, tore and broke over his own grief.

 

Hank held him close, let him cling, and rocked him to and fro until he was quiet again, however long it took. Even after he quieted down, they sat there on the floor for a little while longer, Connor tucked into his arms and wiping at his face. Hank kissed the top of his head, and Connor sighed in response.

 

‘My head hurts,’ he signed, and Chloe’s quietly morose tones drifted from his jacket pocket by the front door. So the app must still be running in the background.

 

“It happens,” whispered Hank. “You feel like tea?”

 

Connor shook his head; Hank nodded. 

 

‘I’m tired.’

 

And that was a sentiment Hank could relate to, any day of the week. A fatigue of the body and soul, so deeply rooted you could never really shake it off. Although, since meeting Connor, he’d had to reevaluate that feeling, that sensation of being constantly weighed down, as something that  _ could _ change for the better. Connor wasn’t up for pep talk, though, that much was painfully obvious.

 

“Then...stay the night. You can sleep in my bed, I’ll take the couch. Do you need to be anywhere else tonight?”

 

Connor shrugged, and that was all the green light Hank needed to begin the process of getting back on his feet after kneeling for any prolonged period of time. Damn his crotchety joints - and he couldn’t even blame old age, they’d always been a collection of assholes, always locking in place. He could remember going through this farse even as a kid, after playing video games on the floor for too long, having to shift position every five-fucking-minutes. He switched to PC soon enough, and never looked back.

 

Connor raised concerned eyebrows at him, Hank shook his head. Here he’d thought maybe he could be a bit of a romantic stereotype and swoop a certain someone up into his arms, easy - but that was a flimsy excuse for a fantasy if he had to physically stretch his legs back into alignment.

 

“I’m fine. I just need to straighten out my joints a bit. Gimme a sec. I’m not old, I’m just a bit rusty. Congenital whatsits.”

 

‘Does it hurt?’

 

It was a thing of beauty: Connor was the one who was worried now, concerned, wanting to help and unsure how to go about it. Hank got his feet sorted out under him, pushed to his knees, and Connor’s hands were there to steady him (or keep him from toppling over, maybe) helping him into upright position again. Connor didn’t step away, or remove his hands, merely shifted position into another hug.

 

“I have a bunch of old t-shirts, perfect for sleeping in. If you want to, you know, not sleep in your work clothes. You don’t wanna sleep, I bet there’s a game on somewhere in the world. Or we could channel surf, like we used to do last century. Nice and mind-numbing.”

 

Connor looked up at him then, eyes open and unguarded, as if he was the sun and the moon and the stars. Hank didn’t think anyone had looked at him that way before, not even his ex - and he’d  _ loved _ her, she’d  _ loved him _ , they’d had a son…

 

But no. No one had looked at him quite like this before, and for a split second (nothing more) he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. The reason it only lasted for one second, was that Connor had a way of putting things in perspective, and he rarely voiced an opinion he wasn’t absolutely certain on.

 

‘You love me,’ he said.

 

And he was right. Of course he was right, hit the nail on the head, got it in one. Hank dreaded there would be follow up questions, like that first time they actually talked. Why this, why that, and he couldn’t put words to what he felt. As much of a cliché it was, to say  _ I love you _ , sometimes there simply weren’t any other set of words that fit the bill. Except, perhaps,  _ You love me _ .

 

Hank nodded. There really was no use hiding from Connor’s laser eyes, after all - and Connor echoed his nod, which, if this had been any other person simply nodding at him after such a potentially hazardous confession, Hank wouldn’t have known what to feel… But it wasn’t anyone else, it was Connor, and that meant Hank was all smiles. Connor didn’t shake his head, he  _ nodded _ . Toi, qui m’aimais - like in the song.

 

Eyebrows arched, Hank leaned down, grinning. Connor shrugged, or squirmed, but didn’t move away. He bit his lip, eyes flitting sideways, and then, after what looked like very careful consideration… He nodded again.

 

Hank kissed his blushing cheek, then steered him towards the bathroom. “Freshen up if you want, Hell, grab a shower, whatever. I’ll leave a couple t-shirts on the bed for you to choose from. Bed’s yours if you want it.”

 

They parted ways in the hallway, each of them disappearing behind a different door; their hands let go, smiles traded over shoulders before they each set to work. Hank picked out a few of his old t-shirts (nothing wrong with them, but he wasn’t in his thirties anymore, hello dadbod, so he’d kept them. In case. He hadn’t been banking on a gorgeous willow tree of a guy to be sleeping in ‘em, but he certainly wasn’t complaining), changed out of his own work clothes real quick-like, into sweatpants and one of his band tees, tidying up the bedcovers (whyyy he bothered, honestly, but it seemed to matter more, knowing Connor would be sleeping in it). He grabbed what he needed from his bedside table, the closet, and made himself scarce. Knowing himself he’d be up a couple, or...five, more hours, so he might as well get some work done - and there was the matter of the Carlos Ortiz case that he couldn’t quite get out of his head.

 

He settled on the couch in his usual spot, case file spread out on the coffee table, pen and notepad at the ready, tablet, reading glasses, and two mugs of sweet tea. Perfect.

 

Only one more thing to do. Get his hair out of his goddamn eyes.

  
  


***

 

Connor took his time in the bathroom, most of it spent staring at his own mirror image and fretting at the state of himself. He blew his nose, splashed cold water over his face, mind racing with a million different scenarios, one more gruesome than the next. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself his fears didn’t have any bearing on the real world, it took him nearly fifteen minutes to calm down enough that he felt steady on his feet. He felt embarrassed, and afraid he’d end up curling into a ball again, and...the  _ noises _ he’d made…

 

It they were anything to go by, his voice was revolting.

 

But...Hank had simply held him, and kissed his temple, right where it always hurt the most, and sat with him.

 

One last look in the mirror told him it was now or never, he looked almost like himself again. Bloodshot eyes not quite so red anymore, puffy nose not so puffy. He looked like he’d been thrown face first into a wall, but, he supposed it didn’t matter if he was going to sleep alone in a darkened room. So, that settled in the privacy of his own mind, Connor stepped out of the bedroom - only to find Sumo sitting right there. His tail started wagging the moment their eyes met, and Connor smiled despite himself.

 

He waved at the big dog, petted his forehead, and slipped into the bedroom. It wasn’t as neat as he remembered it, but it was a nice room, a good size, and a bed big enough for two adults and a dog. The thought made him smile.

 

The t-shirts, though, was one questionable item of clothing after another. Sumo ambled after him, watching his every move; Connor gestured at the trio of t-shirts - Rammstein, Iron Maiden, or tie-dye madness? He shook his head, and Sumo concurred with a skeptical whuff.

 

He settled on the tie-dye, purely on the basis of softness and fit. Loose enough to be comfortable, and-- once he’d put it on, he kind of liked the print. It was psychedelic and bright, all these blue ripples spreading from a single ring of dark blue and red.

 

Crawling under the covers, he soon found out that getting comfortable after, well,  _ everything _ that happened tonight, was just not going to happen. He was too wound up, mind racing even with the comforting rumble of Sumo’s snoring presence at his side. No amount of stroking his fur seemed to lower his heart rate. There was only one thing to do. Find the one person who made it easier to relax, even with the headaches and the fears.

 

He padded out, wearing nothing but the t-shirt and his boxer briefs. The light was on in the living room still, and the sight of Hank sitting at the coffee table was like a painting. Connor stopped at the end of the wall, and just watched him for a moment: reading glasses sliding down his nose, hair twisted and clipped back right behind his ears, dark gray t-shirt and raspberry red sweatpants with a black skull print. It was a sight for sore eyes. It was...cute.

 

He knocked on the wall, and Hank turned to look with his head tilted slightly to see above the rim of his glasses. “Hey!” He smiled, looking as happy as he sounded. “How’s your head? Trouble sleeping?”

 

Connor shrugged, padding over, arms crossed and hands tucked into his armpits.

 

“There’s plenty of room here, sit, sit. Lemme just get this out of the way, it’s not goin’ anywhere.”

 

‘I don’t mind. But if it’s work related…’ He shrugged, hands hovering in the air - to tuck them back in there, or… But Hank looked at him then, seeming to size him up.

 

“You know I work homicide,” he said, very seriously, plucking his glasses off his nose.

 

Connor nodded, coming to stand behind the couch, bringing his hands to rest at the top of the cushions.

 

“It’s a bad one. Stabbing victim, left for dead 19 days, according to the coroner’s office. Crime scenes are never,  _ never _ like what you see in the movies, or on crime time tv. People think they’ve seen it all before, they can take looking at a picture of a dead person. They can’t.”

 

Connor found himself going the body language route once again, shrugging. He didn’t really care what other people thought, or how they reacted. He climbed over the back of the couch, one long leg after the other and took a seat right there, next to Hank.

 

There was something incredibly charming about seeing him like this, with his hair away from his face, or most of it, glasses hanging on by the stem pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

 

‘So don’t show me pictures of the deceased. Tell me the facts, what you’re thinking.’

 

Hank took a deep breath that moved all the way down to his belly, in and out through his nose. “Alright,” he said, replacing his glasses where he needed them, and proceeded to give Connor the raw data of the case. No names or addresses named, because Connor was a civilian, and even dead men had the right to basic levels of personal integrity.

 

The victim was a caucasian male, age 29 at the time of his death, and had a history of violence, theft and aggravated assault. He was a drug addict, and by all accounts he kept to himself. The neighbours all agreed that while he never bothered anyone, the state of his house and yard had been deteriorating the past few years. It was the landlord who had found him, having come over to demand rent. The victim hadn’t paid his dues for ten months prior.

 

It made Connor sad to think he had laid there so long, with no one even noticing. No family or friends who came to check up on him, no neighbours coming over… He’d been all alone in the end, except…

 

‘Did you say 28 stab wounds?’

 

Hank nodded, reaching for one of the mugs of lukewarm tea. Connor found himself reaching for the other one, mimicking Hank’s sip. “Uhuh?”

 

He put the mug down, to free up his hands. ‘That indicates a crime of passion. Or is that something movies perpetrate as fact, when it’s fiction?’

 

Hank’s mouth tugged into a wonky smirk. “No, that’s right. That many stab wounds to the chest and abdomen, he would’ve been dead in no time.”

 

‘So whoever killed him went on after he was clearly dead? Were there signs of struggle?’

 

Again, Hank nodded, and flipped through the images in his folder, picking out the ones that were of the house itself, rather than the victim. “See for yourself.”

 

Following the evidence markers in the order they were placed, excluding the ones to do with the victim himself, Connor drew up a 3D image of the house in his mind. Some things were immediately apparent, judging by the directionality of blood spatter, for instance, like that whatever had sparked such a violent reaction, it started in the kitchen and moved into the living room. The perpetrator took the knife from the magnetic holder on the wall, and the victim dropped a baseball bat in the ensuing struggle.

 

‘What about the blood on the baseball bat?’

 

“Didn’t get us anywhere. It’s been corrupted, somehow. Degraded, or something. Coroner couldn’t get anything from it, aside from the most obvious part. It’s blood. He couldn’t even tell if it’s human. Dead end, right there.”

 

Connor pursed his lips. No fingerprints aside from the victim on anything of significance. No fingerprints at all on the kitchen knife. ‘Gloves?’

 

“Probably. One theory is our victim surprised an intruder. Burglary gone wrong.”

 

‘You don’t like it.’

 

Hank gave him that same smirk again, the one that said he was surprised to have the obvious pointed out to him. Or maybe it meant he didn’t think he was that easy to read. “Nope. Guy had nothing much of value aside from a few packs of red ice and a nice enough tv, but nothing was taken from the house. No cash, no credit cards, no tech. Nothing was touched, far as we can tell.”

 

‘No signs of forced entry?’

 

“Nope.”

 

Connor looked at the photos again, sipped his tea, and circled back to what looked like an effigy. A shrine set up in the shower, with a clay figure at the center of it, surrounded by dead flowers...and the walls covered in waterproof marker ink.  _ rA9 _ …

 

Where had he heard that before? It looked so familiar, and yet… It was like a memory that wasn’t his own, as if he’d heard someone mention it, or seen a graphic design of it somewhere online. He let out a small sigh.

 

‘You’re right, it is a mystery. Not much to go on at all.’

 

“Mmnh. That’s what I’m saying. If we’d been there on day one, maybe… The first 48 hours are crucial, first two days, but to get there on the twentieth?”

 

The time and date stamps on the documents said the evidence was filed three weeks ago, and even now this one case was coming back to haunt the lieutenant. Connor wondered if there were other cases like this, that had stuck with him over the years. All the things he must have seen, all the death, the all-too common tragedies of life.

 

He reached out to push the papers into the folder and close it, and then took the mug from Hank’s hands and set it to the side, tugging on him to get up, follow him, come along.

 

‘Bed,’ he signed. ‘Sleep,’ he added, to avoid any potential awkward moments. Hank made a big show of pushing to his feet, but he was grinning.

 

“I wish. Not with those images printed onto the backs of my eyelids.”

 

But he followed him to bed, and they crawled under the covers, with Sumo still sprawled across half the queen size bed. They curled up close and snug, limbs tangled into a full body hug, and despite Hank’s misgivings about sleep, he was snoring softly in less than five minutes.

 

Connor watched him sleep for hours, counting his heartbeats and his breaths, and all the little hairs of his eyebrows. He felt happy, through and through, truly, genuinely, positively alive with it. He didn’t know what to do with all this new energy buzzing around inside him.

 

Hank wanted to learn how to sign, to understand him better.

 

Hank loved him.

 

Hank  _ loved  _ him. Him!

 

Love, Connor was quickly beginning to realize, was the most terrifying word in the world - but he could be brave...for the man he loved.


	5. Only Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In no particular order:
> 
> Connor asks something pivotal about the Carlos Ortiz case, which leads to a discovery that no one knows quite how to deal with.
> 
> Fowler reminds himself to check his negative bias at the door.
> 
> Connor writes a letter that Hank forgets to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to fromthebeginningthen (I suck at formatting and linking, sorry) for that thing about sponges :D You know what I'm talking about!
> 
> *
> 
> On a more serious note: this chapter delves a bit further into the topics of sexuality, the fluidity thereof, and that a lot of the time it's more confusing not to have sexual desires than to have them. If you, for whatever reason, have issues with asexuality, people who identify as anything other than sexual beings or are unsure of how to identify on any scale, then that's really not my problem. Read something else. :)
> 
> This isn't to say that this fic won't include a sex scene of some description, at some point. I have things planned - but if that's the only reason you're reading this, I'm very possibly not the writer for you. I will write the occasional PWP, but all my stories are character driven, story driven works of fiction that deal with subject matters important to me. Matters that for whatever reason aren't written about in mainstream media or fanfic, such as asexuality and many other things.
> 
> Okay. Enough of that! For those of you who are still here ;) I hope you enjoy this one!

* * *

 

 

It was dark outside, save for the streetlight glare peeking in through the closed blinds of Hank’s bedroom. The room itself was dark as well, save for the bright slit of Hank’s bedroom door slightly ajar onto the hall. Connor lay awake, eyes spying the light, mapping the room before his mind’s eye. Hank was an uneasy sleeper, rousing every now and again only to shift positions throughout the night, but Connor didn’t mind. He simply tucked himself into the nook of Hank’s arm, or draped himself along his back, or buried his face against his neck to smell him better. Every time Hank breathed a sigh in his sleep, the embarrassment of last night felt very far away, despite the relative brevity of time passed.

 

He could hear the tap running in the bathroom. Hank was done, coming back to bed, and Connor smiled in the dark. The sound of Hank’s shuffling footsteps seemed loud in the silence, nothing but Sumo’s insistent snuffling and snoring to hide his attempt at sneaking back to bed. He came to a stop by the window, the silhouette of his body stretching against the cold white strips of light. Several of his vertebrae popped and snapped, and he let out a soft  _ oof _ . Connor scooted backwards/sideways on the bed, as far as Sumo’s immoveable weight let him, and lifted the covers for the man who loved him.

 

The mattress dipped under Hank’s weight, and he whispered a curse between his front teeth. “Shiiit. Go back to sleep-- I’ll try not to wake you again.”

 

Connor tugged at his t-shirt, wordlessly inviting him back to bed. Their lips found each other for a small kiss that turned into a series of them, soft and leisurely, sleepy kisses that did nothing to wipe the smile off Connor’s face. He ran his index finger down the length of Hank’s nose, and then something glinting, glossy black caught his eye. The smile blossomed into a grin in the dark, and he reached behind Hank’s ear to snap one of his hair clips open.

 

Hank chuckled against his mouth. “Ergh, fuck’em... You like them?”

 

Connor nodded, reaching up to clip his ever wayward cowlick curl off his face. Hank kissed him again, pulling him in close for what could only be described as a cuddle.

 

“...keep it. I…” He gave a deep sigh, which quickly turned into a yawn. “I think I have a bunch of’em, somewhere...”

 

“Hnn,” Connor breathed through a toothy smile, content to stay exactly where he was, and comb his fingers through Hank’s wavy hair. Happy to just lie there, and watch him relax under his hand, relax and drift away into sleep, and every now and then breathe a deep sigh.

 

***

 

The next morning, Hank took an impatient but happy Sumo out for a walk at the crack of dawn (or as close to it as either of them ever came, and not minding the fact the mornings were very dark this time of year), leaving Connor alone, tucked away under the blankets for a bit of a snooze. He figured he might need a bit of alone time, to nap or whatever. Sumo agreed. When they came home, it was to the familiar smells and sounds of the old coffee machine hacking and coughing in the kitchen. And standing right there by the table, was none other than the most beautiful guy in the world, lifting one of his hands for a wave that made Hank grin like a maniac.

 

He let Sumo off the leash, and he dashed for the kitchen and his new best friend. Hank got out of his coat and scarf and boots, shivering. Even a brisk walk in this weather left you feeling like a popsicle in a very icy place… A bit melty, maybe, just looking at the other two. Connor busy patting Sumo’s snowy paws dry with a kitchen towel, Sumo gazing at him like he was the bee’s knees. Best thing since fried bacon.

 

Last night still haunted him, although Connor seemed so much calmer now, so much more relaxed. Hank figured he must’ve done something right, even if he wasn’t sure what. Maybe it was the combination of stuff, but bottom line was, it worked.

 

Or it seemed to.

 

Hank was no stranger to anxiety - if that’s what it was, last night - and he knew from personal experience that the shittier you felt, the better you got at hiding it just so people would stop asking how you were doing.  _ Are you okay? Is there anything I can do to help? _ What are you even supposed to say to that? No one ever seemed to want to know the truth of how much pain you were in, at the time. No one could really do anything to help, except...be there in the outskirts of your life, giving you space but keeping themselves in full view, so to speak.

 

Hank had never been on the other side of the looking glass, until now. He’d never understood just how difficult it was to stay quiet, that your mind kept circling back to Find the Right Words, and all it came up with was  _ Are you okay? Is there anything I can do to help...? _

 

Hank sighed, deciding then and there that he was just going to have to find the right fucking words, because as scary and helpless he’d felt in the face of Connor’s abysmal anguish, it felt like a breakthrough. Odd as it was, it felt like they’d turned onto a brand new road. He’d given Connor space for weeks now, out of self preservation as much as respect. Perhaps it was time for him to close the distance. If Connor trusted him enough to completely drop his barriers, then Hank had to ask himself if it was mutual.

 

The answer was simple.

 

He made toast, and sat down with Connor by the kitchen table, the scent of coffee wafting from their mugs. Connor’s cell phone laid out on the table: familiar, expected, in case they wanted to talk. It was easier said than done. For minutes, he simply sat there crunching away at his toast. Just because he’d decided to share some of his own issues didn’t mean it was easy. He swallowed down a small mouthful of coffee so hot it burned his throat. Deep breath, in, out. Even now, after months of AA meetings touching on the topic, he struggled to talk about Cole. He never knew what to say, or how to describe the guilt - of surviving, of being unable to help, powerless.

 

“Three years ago, I was in a car accident. A ‘vehicular incident’. I...was driving home, with my son in the car with me. He had just turned six.” His throat began to close over, so he had another sip of coffee. Connor sat quiet, looking at him that way he did, sometimes. Eyes wide open, observing him.

 

“I got out with a few scratches, bruises, minor shit. But he--”

 

His eyes burned. He breathed in deep through his nose. “He needed surgery. Surgeon insisted they use this fancy new microrobotics nonsense, nanotechnology. Non invasive wonders of the future. Fat lot of good  _ that does _ if you can’t control your goddamn robots.”

 

Connor’s hand found its way to his back, stroking back and forth across his spine. Hank sighed again, had another mouthful to swallow away the anger as much as the tightness of his throat. “He didn’t make it, and I’ve been...trying to move past it ever since. Most of that’s involved drinking and...other questionable habits. I’m not saying I know how to deal with it. I’ve been committing suicide one bottle of hard liquor at a time since it happened, and I know that’s not what you want to hear…

 

“What I’m trying to say is, I’m not asking why you felt the way you did last night, or what caused it. I’m just saying I know the feeling. Or, I have an inkling. But if you ever feel like that again, and you want me to, I’unno, be in the same room with you? Just call. Text me. I’ll be there.”

 

The only response he got was a huff of air, and for a moment he thought that was it, but then Connor leaned in and pressed a soft, warm kiss to his shoulder, through his shirt. It was neither confirmation or denial, but it tickled his funny bone nonetheless, to think anyone could plead the fifth with a kiss. Connor topped up his coffee for him, and they sat in comfortable silence for another minute or two. Hank felt better for having told him about his son, like a weight lifted off his chest. It still hurt, just having talked about it, but he still felt better now than just minutes ago. Strange how the body works. Or the soul.

 

‘I’m sorry about your son,’ Chlo-e said suddenly, her voice muted to match Connor’s signing. ‘I’m sorry to see you hurting like this.’

 

“I’ve been a lot worse,” Hank admitted, daring to look Connor in the eye for the first time since he started talking about Cole. All he could see was empathy, which made it easier to keep going. “I’ll never get over it, I’m not recovered, I’m...still struggling to deal with it… But I’ve been a lot worse off than I am now.”

 

They shared barely-there smiles, each going back to breakfast. Another few minutes passed, between buttering toast, peeling paper thin slices of hard cheese and cucumber for topping (a breakfast ritual acquired from growing up with a Swede for a dad), and more coffee. Then, Connor seemed to have made up his mind. Instead of telling Hank, he started typing on his phone. That wasn’t so much the puzzling bit, at least not from where Hank was sitting - the typing thing, he could kinda relate to that. Sometimes it was easier to write stuff down than just blurt out shit at random - but Chlo-e didn’t say so much as a peep. She’d been quiet the night before, too, when Connor signed his translation of those French lyrics. Was it a glitch, or…? Did Connor put her on standby? Shut her off?

 

And he didn’t stop typing for a while, either, his trio of frown lines moving like an equalizer wave. Sumo came on over to plant his chin on Hank’s thigh, begging for a bit of affection. Hank scratched him behind the ear, and opted for staying quiet.

 

They finished their breakfast, and Connor was still typing by the end of it. Hank put away their plates, leaving them in the sink for washing up later, and he didn’t know if he should be worried or touched, but he supposed he’d find out soon enough.

 

Just as suddenly as he’d started, he stopped, and looked up at Hank with resolution in his eyes, or maybe determination was a better word. The lines of his face were set, while his complexion was blotched with pink. Then his phone dinged, and his eyes went from Connor to his phone. It was a notif from his private email provider, with a header that said READ LATER.

 

“Oh-kay, then,” he said, swiped the notif off the screen, looked at Connor, feeling torn between amusement and puzzled intrigue. And, also, “Wanna tell me how you got hold of my email account? Not like I advertize it to the internet at large.”

 

The look of (fake) innocence Connor shot him was one of utter perfection as he mimed out, eyebrows raised and hand to heart,  _ who, me? _

 

“Yeah,  _ you _ . Now, come on, I gotta get to work. I’ll drop you off on the way.”

 

Later in the car, Connor sat in the passenger seat with a strange look on his face. He was staring at Hank for long periods of time, looking away, only to look at him again. Hank knew what he looked like, and Connor had called him ‘beautiful’ (jeeeepers), but somehow he got the sense this wasn’t about bald faced admiration. He turned the music down and cast a look that-a-way.

 

“Wanna tell me what’s on your mind?”

 

Connor lifted his shoulders, one after the other, as if posture alignment could make all the difference. Maybe it did. ‘I don’t want to imply you’re not doing your job right…’

 

That’s nowhere near what Hank thought he was gonna hear, but he was game. “My job?”

 

He glanced at Connor again, but his eyes were on the traffic. All the commuters out on the roads, and school transports and taxi cabs, the lot. Just because they were all controlled by artificial intelligence didn’t mean he trusted them one iota. Connor looked away, biting the inside of his cheek.

 

‘The case of the stabbing victim. Did you find his co-habitant?’

 

A tingle moved up Hank’s spine, curling the hairs at the back of his neck. “His what?”

 

‘His co-habitant. The closet. It was full of clothing that would fit someone much slimmer than the clothing strewn about the place. Either your victim weighs roughly 280 pounds, or he weighs some 100 pounds less. Either he favors loose fitting t-shirts featuring half naked people, or slim fit, plain dress shirts. Which is it?’

 

“You got all that from looking at the crime scene photos?”

 

Connor nodded, Hank cursed as they got caught behind a red light at an intersection. At least they were getting closer to the central area of the city. If Connor was onto something, he had to double check, make double, triple sure they hadn’t missed something when they processed the scene. “There’s no one else registered on that address. The landlord doesn’t have anyone else in his files. Just the deceased.”

 

Again, Connor looked away, tilting his head to look out the window. He inhaled, exhaled, glanced at Hank for a microsecond before facing front. ‘Did you check the attic?’

 

“The  _ attic?! _ ’ Hank couldn’t believe his ears. “ _ Of course _ we checked the attic!”

 

Connor’s mouth was a crisp, straight line. ‘The notes didn’t say anything about it. There were no markers, no photos or samples taken. Nothing.’

 

No notes. No markers. No samples taken - that could all be down to there being nothing of significance up there, but he had to be sure, because… There had been no sign of forced entry, no sign of anyone coming or going. No reports of anyone lurking around the house around the time of death. Nothing. “...fuck,” said Hank. “How you feel about tagging along with me today? Talk to my boss. Maybe you can tell him it’s a good idea to go back to the house three weeks later.  _ Je- _ sus-fuck.”

  
  


***

 

All things considered, Fowler was having a great day: he was all caught up on his reports for the week thus far, he was on his first cup of hot black coffee for the day, and he was happy to see one of his oldest friends walking into the bullpen several hours before he used to arrive. A few short months of therapy and effort had made a world of difference, even if the road was rocky as Hell, and he had a long way yet to travel. Still. It was good to see Hank looking more like his old self again - minus the beard and shaggy hair, but baby steps…

 

What Fowler  _ hadn’t  _ counted on this fine morning was seeing the tall, slim kid following his old friend into the office like a puppy. ‘Kid’ was a misnomer, probably wildly inaccurate, but the way he carried himself made him seem very young. A victim, perhaps? A witness, more likely. Someone who’d seen something, someone Hank had given out one of his cards to (those damn cards. Jeffrey used to tease him about those, encourage him with friendly jibes to join the 21st century already. No one used business cards anymore. No one but Hank. Just like no one read actual books anymore. Nobody but Hank).

 

He watched as a perplexing scene unfolded, where Hank pointed out his office, palm open, head tilting this way. Not just indicating the captain’s office, but asking? Asking what? The young man in turn simply stood there for a while, lifted his shoulders in a shrug, eyes averted. Fowler watched as Hank brushed the man’s arm, pointed at the chair by his desk, telling him to sit down...only to turn on his heel and head this way. Fowler busied himself with one of his tablets, sipped his coffee with such artful perfection as (he thought) could land him an Academy award and an Emmy  _ and _ a Golden Globe.

 

Hank knocked on the door before opening it just enough to pop his head in. “Got a minute?”

 

“Mmh,” said Fowler, swallowing his coffee, and gestured at the chairs in front of his desk. “Good morning to you, too, Hank.”

 

His friend grinned, pulling out the chair closest to him to allow for some extra leg space. Fowler couldn’t disagree. If there was an inch between them… He knew all about the luxury of leg space. “Listen, about the Carlos Ortiz case...”

 

_ Oh _ , but if that didn’t tickle his ears. “Yes? You got a new lead?”

 

“Something like that.” As good news as that would be, Hank seemed more awkward than pleased. He scratched his left cheek, beard rasping under his fingernails. “More like crossing t’s and dotting shit. I think we need to go back, check the place out again. Did we ever process the attic?”

 

“The  _ attic?  _ What’s the attic got to do with anything? Unless that’s a witness sitting in your chair--” Fowler jabbed his thumb in the direction of Hank’s desk, and looked over - the kid was...busy nosing around Hank’s desk? “ _ \--picking _ at your  _ stickers _ , you’re gonna have to bring me up to speed, and fast. Is this one of your hunches? Backpedaling? What?”

 

To Fowler’s everlasting surprise, the look in Hank’s eyes softened, of all things. And he smiled. “Call it a different perspective,” he said. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

 

And then the penny dropped. Or, at the very least, Jeffrey had a hunch of his own, and quickly shifted from his Final Boss Level mode, to friend and ally. “Don’t tell me that’s your mystery friend out there. Is that Connor?”

 

The name was the extent of what he knew about Hank’s new friend, because while he wanted to ask a million questions he knew that tack didn’t work with Hank. If he wanted to know anything at all, it would have to be on Hank’s terms, when and how he wanted to tell. ...and he’d told him his name was Connor, and his eyes had lit up at just the thought of the guy. It was enough for Jeffrey to be happy for his friend. For the time being.

 

Or it had been - because whatever he’d imagined Connor to be like, this shrinking violet, blending into the wallpaper thing wasn’t it. Even if Hank didn’t have a type, the way people tended to go for certain looks or personality traits, Jeffrey had never known him to gravitate towards someone who seemed so... _ meek _ . Lacklustre.  _ Beige _ , for cryin’ out loud.

 

But, just as he’d suspected, Hank’s eyes went from their regular work mode to something more dewy eyed, and the skin around them went up in happy crow’s feet. “Yeah. That’s Connor.”

 

Jeffrey pressed his lips into an inverted smile, and sipped his coffee. It made it easier to skeptically eye his friend without seeming too critical. He had to remember to check his own negative bias at the door, sometimes. He didn’t know, because he hadn’t asked, and it was his own damn fault. “Anything I need to know? He seems a bit...muted.”

 

The way Hank chuckled was as if he’d just made a joke he wasn’t aware of - he had a feeling it was a long story, but he was glad when Hank gave him even an abbreviated version. He told him about Connor’s aversion to speaking, how he got by using ASL and that Chlo-e app everyone had been raving about for the past five years or so. He told him he felt awkward in new environments, meeting new people, but he’d warm up quick if he felt comfortable around you. He said he was brilliant, and cheeky, and wouldn’t hesitate to tell you exactly what he thought about things; that sometimes he had absolutely no filter, and that made Jeffrey crack a smile.

 

“Sounds like the perfect match for you, then.”

 

“Yeah, alright, we’re...going places, but I don’t wanna jinx anything, so you shut the Hell up about stuff like that, okay? And no third degree cop bullshit!”

 

Jeffrey held up both hands, showing his palms. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Now, am I going to get to meet your new partner, or what?”

 

The happy fuzzies visibly gave way to a more awkward tension around Hank’s mouth. Jeffrey could relate. Everyone always talked about the nerve wracking milestone of having your partner meet your parents or vice versa, but having them meet your best friend was right up there on the list of most nervous things to do in a relationship. What would he think of the new guy? What would Connor think of him? Oh, the humanity.

 

Hank got up out of his chair, moved to the door to open it. “Connor? Fowler wants to meet you.”

 

Jeffrey looked on as Connor turned big, brown owl eyes his way. He seemed as nervous as Hank, except where Hank wore his heart on his sleeve sometimes, this was just a ripple in a pond. Connor’s expression smoothed out but immediately, and he got to his feet.

 

As he stepped into the glass box office, they each eyed each other, Hank smoothing his own nerves over with a cheery introduction. To this day Fowler often wondered who had thought setting the Captain’s office at a height, fitting it with floor to ceiling window panes for walls was a fantastic idea. More often than not he felt like he was on display, as if he was under constant review by his officers. He felt less like he was inviting people into his office, and more like they were joining him in a goddamn holding cell. But that was beside the point, though he could’ve sworn he caught a glimpse in Hank’s friend’s eyes that said he felt just as trapped in the situation as the rest of them.

 

“Good morning, Connor. It’s good to finally meet you. Hank’s told me virtually nothing about you.”

 

Connor’s eyes flitted from him to Hank and back again, as if to wordlessly seek support, or confirmation of how to proceed. Then, very simply, he gave Fowler a smile, and lifted his hand from the backpack strap on his shoulder, to wave.

 

From less than five feet away.

 

Fowler reminded himself once more: bias. Door. Check. “Alright, that’s the formalities done and dusted. You want to tell me why I should give Hank the go ahead in the Ortiz case?”

 

Connor beamed; Fowler sipped his coffee, and listened as Hank’s gut instincts once again panned out. Kid got eyes and knew how to use them - though ‘kid’ he was not. The more he talked, or the more questions Jeffrey asked, the more confident he seemed to become, and with it, you could see the tell tale signs of age and experience. Just the way he described things, didn’t make assumptions, the way he viewed the world. He looked young, but that was it. Like Hank had said, he was very intelligent (brilliant, he’d said), and Jeffrey suspected he was a bit too intelligent for most people.

 

He was credible, and methodical, and he could make a case for going back to the scene of the crime without making it sound like a snipe hunt. Or a wild goose chase.

 

It was all Jeffrey needed.

 

***

 

6413 Pines Street was a derelict building in the making, one of many houses along the street that had been left to slowly decay around the families that lived within their walls. It was one of the living proof that the economic boom that had hit the country thanks to the likes of CyberLife, was only making the rich richer, and those who had little to nothing were left behind once again. Unemployment skyrocketing through the roof at the same time corporate America hits a new golden age?

 

It wasn’t the first time around, and it would probably not be the last, the way President Warren was running the country. Or rather, with the way she  _ wasn’t _ .

 

Hank parked the car outside the house, not liking this one bit. The landlord was waiting for them in the front yard, looking as cheerful as ever. By which Hank meant  _ not at all. _

 

“Stay in the car,” Hank told Connor, who gave him a blank look in return.

 

“I mean it. Even without the blood and trash everywhere, that place is one hard huff away from toppling over.”

 

Connor’s eyes were full of mischief, but at least he didn’t seem too unhappy at the directive. ‘You mean you won’t dig me out from under a collapsed building? And here I thought we had something special.’

 

“You’re such a brat.” And a bit of a geek, and cute, and…  _ ugh _ . “I won’t be long. I hope.”

 

It all came down to what they found up there, if anything. It could be another dead end, which, fine, that happens all the time. Or, worse case scenario, they could find another dead body. Hank had seen enough crazy on the job to know you could find dead people absolutely everywhere, and the ways in which you could die were endless. He was  _ really _ hoping the wouldn’t find someone up there, dead of starvation.

 

Connor gave his hand a squeeze of encouragement, and demonstratively got out his headphones and a tiny laptop out of his bag. He was set, Hank had work to do. This was a one off thing, they could manage. Now he just had to figure out how not to throttle Reed every time he made an ignorant remark.

 

As detectives went, Reed was one of the best in the city. Young, ambitious, with the quick rise through the ranks to prove it. He reminded Hank of himself, when he was that age. He just hoped he was never quite so full of himself.

 

The search itself was over and done with quickly enough with the help of the owner there. If not for his knowledge of the layout, they could’ve been searching for a way up into the attic for hours. Hank still felt a bit like one of the Three Stooges, except for the fact there were five of them, including the owner. Collins and Miller were in the background, making double sure they hadn’t missed something beneath all the grime. The place was cleared out and cleaned (as much as it could ever be truly clean after what looked like years of not giving a shit), but you never knew what you could find at a second glance.

 

Reed volunteered to climb up, have a first look at the place. Landlord said he hadn’t gotten around to clearing it out, that it was bad enough what he had to deal with in the rest of the house. Hank couldn’t disagree with that. He thought it was enough of a hassle to clean his own house on a weekly basis, and his place was a pristine shrine to order and reason compared to the state this house was in the last time they were here.

 

Small talk being small talk, it died down quickly, as Hank had already asked all the relevant questions last time, and he had a bad feeling about this. It was bad enough they’d missed this last time around, but...what if there was something up there? Something vital to the case?

 

He didn’t know how right he was. Reed’s voice suddenly echoed through the attic space, down through the hole in the ceiling. “Found sumthin’!”

 

***

 

While Connor hadn’t actually promised to stay in the car, he weighed his options carefully and concluded that there were plenty of people going into the house, trained professionals no less, and he’d very likely only be a source of distraction. Worse case scenario, he could get in the way or accidentally corrupt evidence - not in his own estimation, but he had to consider things from Hank’s perspective. This was his area of expertise. This was his turf, his colleagues, he had things under control.

 

To be perfectly honest, he was relieved that Hank didn’t ask him to come along. He still felt jittery enough after meeting Hank’s oldest friend and  _ boss _ , to brave meeting three more of his co-workers, even if Hank had told him about them beforehand. Miller the hardworking new dad, Collins the good-natured tease, Reed the hotshot.

 

Every now and then he looked up from his laptop to scan the house for movement. Collins and Miller were moving around, but the others were too far away. Things were very Business as Usual, so Connor took the opportunity to reply to some work emails, check the Creative Life app for updates, just a bit of sweeping the floor ahead of time. He preferred order and neatness and punctuality. It made everything so much easier to deal with.

 

Not fifteen minutes into his work, the front door opened again, and something tingly and dark moved through Connor’s spine. Collins was the first one out the door, looking vaguely green tinged, his eyes wide with disbelief. The owner followed him, a similar look on his face. And then, four people walked through the door. Miller, guiding a young man along the porch, helping him sit down on the steps. The first glance told Connor he was 5’11” (easy enough to see even without Hank’s six-foot-two for reference), weighed 180 pounds. His clothes were caked with old blood: plain, neat shirt and pants, the same size as in the crime scene photograph of the closet’s contents. Connor frowned, and looked again. His body language wasn’t just compliant, or speaking of someone wanting to retain a bit of dignity, but he was...subdued. Eyes downcast, chin to his chest. He was hiding, even in plain sight (Connor had dedicated too many years of his life to perfecting that art not to recognize it).

 

Hank was on the phone, talking to emergency medical services. Connor had spent by far enough time watching Hank’s mouth whenever he talked to know exactly how he shaped every vowel and consonant and diphthong, the works. He was not a happy man. His body language let that slip from a mile off.

 

“-- _ whaddaya  _ **_mean_ ** _ the nearest ambulance is ten minutes away?! Fuck’s sake, we’re bringing him in. Tell them we’re en route-- what’s the nearest healthcare center, hospital, anything? Uhuh. Got it. We’re leaving. _ ”

 

They started moving again, Miller helping the man get to his feet, keeping him steady. The closer they got to Hank’s car, the more apparent it was to Connor that ‘himself’ wasn’t the only thing he was hiding. Those were cigarette burns on his face and neck, visible even under all that old blood. The way he held his right arm indicated an injury, or rather, a more recent one.

 

Connor tilted his head, and for a split second their eyes met. Recognition sparked in the other man’s eyes, and Connor could feel it, too. It was as if they’d seen each other in a dream. As Miller and the lost-and-found co-habitant passed by Hank’s car, Connor faced forward, feeling...strange.

 

He watched through the rearview mirror as Miller and the suspect(?)/victim(?)/witness(?) got into the backseat of Collins’ car, him and Reed getting in up front.

 

Hank was next, slamming the car door open and shut. He looked pale, almost tinged green, like Collins. Visibly shaken (not stirred - and where had he heard that expression?).

 

One trembling exhale later, Hank started the engine and stepped on it to the nearest medical facility in the area. Neither one of them said anything until they were there, and the man was properly registered (Victor, his name was, and it was the only name he told them) and in the hands of medical professionals. Crime scene technicians were en route to collect evidence, but right now the priority was to get Victor checked out and cared for. Reed didn’t like all the fuss, said it was a waste of time and money to patch up a murderer’s booboos.

 

“Newsflash, Gavin,” said Collins, dry and brittle, not a lick of humor to his voice. “Most murderers are normal people, just like you and me.”

 

Reed scoffed. “What _ ever _ . Feck, I got better things to do than hold hands with Mr Stabby, but  _ you go ahead _ . Call me when you’re ready to go back to  _ work _ .”

 

Connor watched as Reed made himself scarce, leaving him and the three law enforcement officers behind in the waiting room. None of them seemed entirely sure how to proceed. Connor could only assume they were shocked to have found someone alive up there after so long. It was also likely that they felt responsible for not finding him in the first place.

 

And how had he survived for so long? Surely whatever food was left in the house was long gone. You couldn’t survive on water alone… You couldn’t go grocery shopping, looking like that.  _ Smelling _ like that...

 

He hesitated for a long time, or so it felt when the wall mounted clock tick-tocked so loudly in the room. The most abrasive of the four of them were gone, but Hank’s co-workers were still strangers to him,  _ and _ they were standing in a room full of people waiting to see a nurse or doctor.

 

Connor got out his android smartphone, and tapped the screen, once, twice, three-to-five times. Collins nearly jumped out of his skin when Chlo-e gently, quietly, poked at their attention.

 

|  _ You should ask him about the abuse. When you get the chance. _ |

 

Hank was the only one there who didn’t turn to stare at him. “Abuse?”

 

|  _ Cigarette burns on his face and neck. They might look like pock marks or adult acne, but they’re not. He’s tried to hide them by growing his hair out, but it only makes them stand out more. His right arm was injured approximately forty-nine days ago. Spiral fracture, most likely. It’s healed, but he’s mindful of it. Ask him, but be gentle. He’s scared. _ |

 

Hank traded frowny looks with the other two officers, but didn’t dismiss him off-hand, like so many others had done in the past. Connor hoped it wasn’t solely due to their private relationship. It was Collins who piped up first, while Miller took down notes on his ePad.

 

“You sayin’ they were lovers? Him and...our victim?”

 

He pressed his lips together, not entirely sure where to look. He’d never liked being at the center of attention, alone in the spotlight. Not even before his brother…

 

Connor shook his head, eyes staring at the floor right in front of Collins’ feet. |  _ I  _ | … … … he typed, hesitating for far too long in his own estimation, but the other three let him take his time. It was quite possibly the first time anyone had cut him so much slack in the space of five minutes. 

 

|  _ I can’t say. I would’ve had to watch them interact with each other to be certain. There was only one bed, which doesn’t mean much. There are other places one can sleep. I, myself, don’t own a bed. I think that question is better asked of Victor.  _ |

 

He could almost hear the way Hank’s eyebrows bobbed up and down in the tone of his voice. “Connor’s right, we can’t assume anything. Policing 101… Find facts, follow the evidence.”

 

Connor swallowed, feeling increasingly agitated surrounded by all these strangers. They were still watching, he knew it, he could see everyone’s faces aimed at him if he closed his eyes - but he had to say one more thing. Just one more thing, before finding the nearest exit.

 

|  _ Try not to look so big and looming. Make yourself smaller. It’s less intimidating. _ |

 

Perhaps Hank sensed his growing discomfort. Perhaps it was written clear across his face. He hoped it wasn’t, but when Hank’s big hand found the center of his back, right below his shoulder blades, he felt better. They were leaving.

 

“Alright,” Hank said. “Keep me updated. I’m heading back to the station.”

 

“Good luck explaining this to the cap’n,” Collins drawled, but didn’t argue. They had everything under control, and there was no use having one lieutenant, two detectives and an officer waiting for CST to get there. Hank offered to drop him off wherever, which on this occasion meant the nearest bus stop that would get him home. Unfortunately, it meant riding in the same car as detective Gavin Reed, who had been giving him the stink eye since their introduction earlier this morning.

 

They found the detective by the nearest food truck, halfway through a breakfast brunch-ito which was as much a sacrilege to Canadian/American/Mexican cuisine as its name. Poutine meeting pickled chilis and guacamole, all wrapped up in a soft tortilla. The smell alone made Connor feel sick to his stomach as they drove back to the station. Hank filled him in on Connor’s observations, at which Reed gave the weirdest snort-laugh. For one split second, it sounded like he was choking on his burrito.

 

“Wow! We got ourselves a Superman, here, didn’t we, Hank? A seasoned scout, huh? Hawkeye got nothing on you. Huh? Hey, I’m talking to you!”

 

“Knock if off, Gavin. He’s observant. You’re just pissed you didn’t notice the cigarette burns before anyone else did, let alone a civilian.”

 

Connor stared at the dashboard, pretending he wasn’t there. If he just pretended hard enough, if he just focused, if he didn’t breathe, he could fade into the background like a statue at a museum. Like one tiny cog built into an intricate machine, blending in amongst the other components.

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Reed scoffed. He was an excellent scoffer. “Whodathunkit, though. Fatso and Slim Jim, bonking. Maybe opposites  _ do _ attract. I mean, you two, you’re a stellar example.”

 

“Shut up, Reed.”

 

It was one of the longest rides of his life, but Connor clamped his jaws shut for the remainder of it. All he wanted was to go home, take the first bus straight home and shut himself away in the quiet privacy of his own space. No strange, judging eyes on him, no blank faces turning towards him as if they shared a hive mind. Home. Where it was safe, and he could work in peace, and not listen to poorly constructed insults.

 

If he’d known then that the day would drag on forever, that every minute would feel like it lasted a lifetime, perhaps he would have braved the outside world for a little while longer. But if wishes were horses, beggars wouldn’t starve.

 

...or something along those lines.

 

***

 

Over the course of the day, Hank asked himself what he had done to get Gavin Reed for a partner. He was obnoxious, arrogant, and often seemed to have the sense of self preservation equivalent to a toddler. He had a bad sense of humor (as in offensively bad, not unifying-a-room-because-it’s-so-punny bad) and a worse sense of self esteem. He’d walk into any room as if he was the most badass macho man alive, and anyone who didn’t fit into his opinion of what a human being should be like, he didn’t hesitate to put down.

 

In so many words, he was a police brutality charge just waiting to happen.

 

Victor, their person of interest in the Carlos Ortiz case, was his latest victim of verbal abuse and threats. When Hank couldn’t get one word out of him, despite taking Connor’s cue on how to run the interview, Reed suggested he could rough him up a bit, and proceeded to imply that he didn’t deserve any better, being a murderer. That he could barely be called a human - and who would take the word of a guy who stabbed someone 28 times, against the word of a cop?

 

Some days Hank wished he wasn’t trying his damnedest to stick to sobriety, because remarks like that made him want to find and guzzle down the nearest whiskey bottle. He could remember being Gavin’s age, when police brutality was constantly in the news and everyone in law enforcement was scrambling to  _ do something _ about it. Twenty years on, and there were people like this, who seemed to think it was okay to ‘roughen someone up’ in police custody,  _ at the hospital _ , no less, and ‘who would believe’ he hadn’t accidentally fallen over and hit his face on the floor?

 

Twenty years and counting, and that’s how far they’d come? It made him wonder why people bothered at all, why strive for change when some people just  _ never _ got the fucking memo.

 

Luckily, no one roughened anyone up over the course of the day. No one stumbled into walls or tripped over their own feet, or ‘accidentally’ had their faces slammed into any flat surfaces. Victor was left overnight at the hospital, cuffed to the bed, but relatively safe. He was in one piece, at least physically speaking. No one came to blows that day. Not on Hank’s watch.

 

(Which isn’t to say that Hank didn’t come close to headbutting anyone at all that day, least of all Detective Gavin Reed. Heavens forfend.)

 

By the time Hank finally came home, it had been dark out for hours, and the only reason he was home at all was Fowler shot him a look of death when  _ he _ called it a day, and Hank knew he’d have vacation days forced on him if he added more overtime to his  _ goddamn overtime _ .

 

All he wanted was to crash on the couch in front of the game, any game, and doze off for a while. He’d been up since fuck o’clock, happily, but he’d been yawning nonstop on the drive home and he. Was. Done. For the day.

 

He took Sumo for a short walk ‘round the block, changed out his water, gave him some food, and all was well with the world. He turned the tv to the sports channel, and was asleep in less than five seconds.

 

...and in his private inbox, there was an email just waiting to be opened, for his eyes only, the subject line saying READ LATER.

 

\---

 

_ Dear Hank, _

 

_ I am unsure of how to put this into words, but I want you to understand my perspective. I have never wanted to pursue a relationship with anyone, romantic, sexual or intimate, before I met you. I don’t need to go into the implications thereof, but I want to try to explain. I suppose I should say ‘not for a lack of opportunity’, but I’ve never understood that phrase. As if there’s some intrinsic value to being sexually desirable in other people’s eyes, and it should somehow validate one’s rejection of sexual matters. I don’t see the difference in my choosing a life of celibacy regardless of my looks or personal desires, as opposed to having oodles of admirers but turning them down at every turn. I suppose there is a difference, but as I say, I don’t understand it. People value the strangest things. _

 

_ I have never had sex. I have masturbated, but it’s never done much for me. It’s like food - I like the idea of it, I get the occasional craving for pasta or meat, anything, but it’s never as satisfying as I think it will be, even as I’m eating. It’s just there. It’s a nice concept, but that’s it. _

 

_ The first time I saw you was the first time I felt anything like sexual desire. It was like a whole different world opened up before my eyes, and I didn’t know how to interpret it, live within it. It frightened me. You didn’t! But my response to you did. _

 

_ Speaking in the most general of terms, I don’t like people very much. They don’t understand me, or want to, and I feel the same about them. There are exceptions, of course, like my pupils, and Professor Stern. They don’t view me as an oddity, or a freak. I can be more like myself in their company, and yet, I don’t think I would miss them, if my life turned onto a different path. I used to think I couldn’t be myself if I didn’t have my position at the school, that I couldn’t leave, that I would be lost without the ability to teach them and watch them grow as human beings. The past month has given me a different perspective. _

 

_ I’m beginning to realize I have allowed myself a very narrowed perspective. I have studied all my life, I have several degrees, I work three different jobs more out of a sense of duty than any monetary need. I have a studio apartment as big as your kitchen, if that, and I don’t need more. I am content. _

 

_ But when you’re with me, I’m  _ **_happy_ ** _. I feel like a room without a roof, just like in the song. _

 

_ I know last night was different. You’re likely to have looked it up already, but that paragraph from Les Feuilles Mortes was...chilling, to me. It painted pictures in my mind, and I stood there, mortified to realize I’ve never known a love like that. I have never lost someone in that capacity, or feared losing them. You live life with someone, share everything, and suddenly it ends, every trace of it erased like footprints in the sand. I’ve never experienced that. It was as if the song spoke directly to me, and I couldn’t cope. _

 

_ I don’t want to be erased. I don’t want to lose you, but all I could think of last night was the endless risks. If we continue down this path, there are a thousand forks in the road, and another thousand, and another, and once I start thinking about it I can’t stop. I am constantly calculating statistical probability. It’s always running in the back of my mind. Always. It’s incredibly easy to get lost in all the numbers inside my head. _

 

_ All I could think about was how you would react if I told you I’m a virgin. I don’t care about things like that, but...I’m not like most people. I don’t think about things like most people do, and I can’t presume to know how you feel about it. I’ve contemplated not telling you at all, just let our relationship run its course, see where we end up. I’ve already led you to think I’m more experienced in that department than I am, just because I have no issues talking about sex, or making innuendo. Intercouse versus discourse… What difference would it make if we have sex, and you think I’ve been with other people before you? _

 

_ The short answer is it would be lying, and I don’t like lying to you, even by omission. Every time we flirt, it feels like I’m lying to you. I only wanted you to like me, find me interesting. People don’t, usually, and that’s fine by me - but you’re different. I want you to like who I am, even if I feel like a fake when I make you blush. I enjoy making you blush. _

 

_ Truth of the matter is, I don’t know if I will ever enjoy sex (with or without a partner), but I’m willing to try. I want you. I love kissing you, sleeping next to you, curling up in your arms, I love the way you feel. You love me. _

 

_ Having said that… If this changes how you feel for me, and you wish to call it off, please don’t reply. I won’t hold it against you. Even what we’ve shared so far is more than I ever imagined I would get to experience. I will never forget that. I can’t forget. _

 

_ Sincerely, _

 

_ Connor _

  
  


***

 

Hours after he got on the bus and came straight home, Connor still sat in the same spot on his couch that he always did, backpack by his socked feet, laptop on the coffee table in front of him. Chloe was watching him from the monitor in the corner of the room. She looked worried. Three times now, she’d asked him if he shouldn’t make some tea, or something warm and comforting to eat. He had a feeling she was going to ask him again, in just a matter of seconds.  _ 4...3...2... _

 

“Connor--”

 

He shook his head ‘no’, hands flying into the air between them. “He should be home soon. He’ll read the email. He’ll text me, or write back - or he won’t. I’m not hungry. I have to wait.”

 

“But it’s been  _ hours _ ! He’s a lieutenant, he works homicide, and since he began therapy he’s thrown himself into work. He’s as much a workaholic as you are.” Chloe sighed, and clasped her hands. He could see it in the angle of her head that she was going to try a different route.

 

“Why don’t we go through the speech therapy exercises Kara sent you? It’s been weeks… And glaring at them won’t help you get reacquainted with your voice. We could try going over the consonants, those are fun!”

 

In sheer frustration, just to get her to shut up, Connor marched to the kitchenette to make some tea. He threw his hands up, miming without using words - angry, frustrated -  _ See?! I’m making tea, happy now?! _

 

Truth of the matter was, neither one of them was happy. Chloe knew exactly what he’d written down, and she was just as anxious as he was. She was just better at hiding it.

 

“I’m sure he won’t mind… He’s not like other people. He’s…sweet.”

 

Her words failed to cheer him up. In fact, they only convinced him he should never have tried to explain everything in such detail. Who in their right mind wanted a virgin, except for some poorly contrived sexual fantasy? Fuel for an overly sexualized imagination? More succinctly put: who in their right mind would want someone who hadn’t even liked the  _ idea _ of sex some two months ago, let alone ever felt any particular  _ need _ for it? Someone who still wasn’t sure if he wanted to get naked with anyone, even if he had plenty of ideas. Even if he’d done a great deal of research on any number of things, since their first kiss at the bus stop.

 

Even if it turned out Hank didn’t mind, like Chloe tried and failed to cheerfully suggest, he had to estimate that even a good man, even the best of people, would hesitate to go any further, for fear of the imagined ‘responsibility’ of navigating that particular mire with someone they cared about.

 

Connor sighed into his mug of tea, leaning against the counter. It seemed like such a waste of time and emotion, to expose himself further when just twenty-seven hours and six minutes ago he had a very unsightly fit of anxiety that ended in crippling embarrassment. He’d never felt so out of control, even at his worst. Now, standing there with the vapors of chai tea tickling his nose, all he really felt was numb. His head hurt, but then again it never really stopped hurting. It was his sternum that felt...off. Not his heart. His heart had nothing to do with emotion.

 

Then the door suddenly came alive with noise - three sharp raps coming from the other side. Chloe jumped, disappearing out of view, hiding beyond the scope of the virtual camera lens. Connor frowned.

 

_ “Connor? You in there? It’s me! Hank!” _

 

“Hank!” Chloe chirped, jumping back into view and clapping her hands in front of her mouth. “Oh! Open it! Get the door!”

 

But Connor hesitated, putting the mug down. “But what if this is the end?” His hands shook through the words. “I don’t… I don’t want to see him if that’s why he’s here.”

 

_ “I should’ve called ahead, but-- I read your letter, your, email, and… I just wanted to see you.” _ Hank’s voice seemed to echo in his head, and when he closed his eyes he could see the other man on the other side of the door just standing there. He had a bag under his arm.

 

_ “I got fries and jalapeño poppers! And condiments! I got a tub each of all the sauces and stuff, Gary must’ve thought I’m losing it, but I figured maybe there’s one you like even more than the barbecue one...I’m babbling. Sorry.” _

 

Chloe glared at him from the corner, making shooing motions at him, and Connor finally relented. Hank brought food, even if junk food didn’t have much to do with sustenance. Connor just hoped it wasn’t a peace offering, or worse, some sort of parting gift…

 

He unlocked the door just as Hank was saying he’d leave the bag of stuff and call him in the morning, he was probably asleep anyways - and his eyes lit up when they looked at each other.

 

“Hey. Hi. Uh.”

 

Connor took the bag from his hand and turned on his heel to unload it on the counter. His heart pounded in his chest, he didn’t know where to look - hence, busying himself with practical matters. Chloe could take care of the rest.

 

“Welcome, Lieutenant Anderson,” she said, glowing almost as bright as her backdrop. “Don’t be shy, please, come in. Would you like some coffee?”

 

Hank looked between them, from Chloe to him and back to Chloe, as if he’d never interacted with her before. Or perhaps he simply wondered at the novelty of artificial intelligence working autonomously.

 

“Uh. Hi. Sure.”

 

Connor smiled despite the racing of his own heart, and looked over. Hank looked so unprepared for this. If he was honest, he wasn’t entirely prepared either. He hadn’t accounted for the dilemma of letting Chloe interact with a guest  _ and _ translate for him, if need be. He looked over, saw her kind eyes looking back. She seemed to know exactly what he was thinking.

 

“It’s good to finally meet you, Lieutenant. Or...may I call you Hank? At least in an informal setting, like this?”

 

“Fine by me. So...you’re Chloe? Or Chlo- _ e _ ?”

 

“Chloe will do fine, yes. Thank you. Now. I think it’s best if you keep your phone application running, Connor. I wouldn’t want to intrude on your evening, but if you need me to translate for you…”

 

Connor gave her a thumbs up and got out another mug, getting Hank some freshly made coffee; Hank brought the food containers to the coffee table.

 

Chloe took a deep breath of satisfaction with that compromise. “Good night, Connor, good night, Hank. I’ll be in standby if you need me.”

 

***

 

Just the two of them, sitting on Connor’s three seat couch, in a space that really was smaller than Hank’s kitchen, and all he could think about was how happy he felt to be here. Connor’s email had put things into perspective, and not in a bad way, but they needed to have some of that grownup conversation that Hank personally detested...and he couldn’t just sit there, at his own desk back in Sterling Heights, typing down all the things he felt. He had to see him. There really was only one way forward, and it was something that hadn’t  _ always _ been his strong suit. It was called empathy, and he was getting reacquainted with it more and more each day, it seemed.

 

Everything laid out on the table, the screen off… Just the two of them, and Connor was uncharacteristically quiet.

 

“My heart wouldn’t stop pounding when I read your letter,” he said, keeping his voice down for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint. He picked up his mug of coffee, fingers closing around the warm, glazed pottery.

 

“I know it’s late, and I’m sorry it took me this long--. I crashed on the couch when I got home, and I...woke up with a jolt. The email!”

 

Connor watched him, eyes moving from his mouth to his eyes, roaming his face like surveillance drones making their rounds. He felt like a shithead, but Connor didn’t seem upset. He was just watching him, the way he always did.

 

“No wonder it took you so long to write all that down… It would’ve taken me days. Several botched attempts…”

 

He dragged in a deep breath, telling himself to get to the point already. This wasn’t just making small talk, this was  _ important _ .

 

“‘Thank you for telling me’ seems like such a...crappy way to start, but...really. Thank you. I’ve been so preoccupied with my own doubts I never stopped to think they could be entirely irrelevant. Why would a guy like you want a guy like me? Find  _ me _ attractive? You should’ve seen me when I was your age, though… But that’s not the point, is it?”

 

Connor shrugged. It was the first cue so far, non-verbal or otherwise, and Hank would take whatever he could and run with it. “You  _ do  _ like me. You  _ do  _ want me, find me attractive, as-is, love handles and beer gut and all, and that’s fine… And… I think we got something going, here that’s too good to let something as trivial as inexperience get in the way. I  _ love _ the way we flirt. I love your wit, and your... _ sass _ , good grief-- And I don’t care-- I don’t care about what other people think. Either we have sex, or we don’t. It’s not that big of a deal.”

 

The look on Connor’s face was one of blatant skepticism:  _ are you shitting me? _ spelled out in so many frown lines and arched eyebrow hairs.

 

“No, I’m serious!” Hank sipped his coffee, put the mug down. Sometimes you needed gestures, just, hands flying in the air to emphasize what you were talking about. Sometimes body language was the only way to go.

 

“You know the most important thing my dad ever told me about sex? That the vast majority of the human experience is actually  _ not _ about having sex. It’s a teeny tiny percentage of a human lifespan. It’s not as important as society wants you to believe. It’s just an instinct like any other.

 

“But...you know… If you want to give it a try, with me, somewhere along the way? I’m all in. Just sayin’.”

 

There was a tiny twitch to Connor’s mouth, and his hands moved, slowly, eyes turned away, eyebrows dancing with barely concealed amusement. ‘Just saying.’ He nodded twice.

 

Hank breathed a sigh of relief. “So, we’re good? I mean, it’s just us. Just you and me. We’ll do okay, right?”

 

There. There’s that smile. ‘And Sumo.’

 

“And Sumo.” A beat, and he nodded at Connor’s monitor. “And Chloe. She’s kinda inexpendable.”

 

‘Unexpendable. Yes. She is.’

 

For a little while, that was the end of it. They snacked, sharing the takeaway box of fries, the many and varied little tubs of saucy goodness. Hank shared their lack of progress with Victor, Connor listened attentively; Hank apologized for Reed’s behavior, Connor made as if to sweep it under the rug. They enjoyed the food, and each other’s company. Everything was fine, except...Hank had the distinct feeling Connor didn’t entirely believe him re: that email. Just when he thought they were going to leave it at that, Connor turned halfway on the couch to face him dead on, knees pulled up to his chest.

 

‘You make it sound too easy. I’ve read everything I could find on sexuality and its variations, but nothing I read made me think it’s that simple. There’s so many different labels, and I don’t think any one of them fits me. Asexual, demisexual, semisexual, romantic, aromantic, homoromantic…’ He shook his head, wiping his hands over his face in the universal gesture of frustration.

 

Hank wiped his hands on one of the paper napkins, dabbed at his mouth to give himself an extra second or two to find the right words. “If you want to use labels, use them. Me, I grew up in a world where all we had were umbrella terms, and you had practically nothing to choose from. I wasn’t straight, or gay, and when ‘bi’ became a term, that didn’t really fit either, because… It just didn’t. All these little boxes that so-called ‘normal’ people try to shove you into? Not my thing. I’m a human being, that’s it. Who I sleep with, or don’t, or how, that’s…”

 

He shrugged his eyebrows. Words seemed so meaningless, sometimes. “Sex is sex. People are people.”

 

Connor leaned his chin atop his knees, right between them, a mighty frown etched into his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut, right hand reaching up to rub at his temple. He gave the tiniest little sigh, eyebrows evening out and eyes opening to look at Hank again.

 

‘You’re saying sexual experience or identity, in whatever form, is not enough on its own to validate one’s humanity.’

 

Connor sure had a way of boiling things down to their most basic component parts. So to speak. Hank tried not to grin, but the more he tried to keep his mouth in a neutral line, the more it tickled at his jaw hinges. “Even sponges have sex. That doesn’t make them human.”

 

He watched Connor’s eyes widen. Watched them go from this tired, resigned-but-relieved look (like he had expected more drama, but was happy he wasn’t getting any), to disbelieving shock. And then, even better, they shrunk into glistening little half moons of incredulous, joyful, sporfling laughter. Connor wheezed when he laughed. It was the prettiest sound in the world right then and there, like music to Hank’s ears.

 

Hank turned in his seat, and gathered his chortling lover into his arms for a firm hug. The laughter was infectious, and before he knew it they were both giggling like school kids, laughing until their bellies ached and tears streamed down their faces. The best kind - silly, completely undignified, and absolutely wonderful. And Connor… He had the best laughter, soft and bright and completely unguarded, because in the midst of everything else he forgot all about his fears that had to do with his voice. He just laughed, and he giggled, not a single worry on his mind.

 

“Oh,  _ wow _ ,” Hank sighed, sagging into a heap where he sat, and Connor seemed to simply gliiide until he was leaning his head on Hank’s thigh. The grin on his face was nothing short of beautiful.

 

‘How come we always end up on a couch, lately?’ he asked, walking the tightrope of serious query and outright teasing.

 

“Fuck if I know. They’re comfy?”

 

Connor arched his eyebrows, mouthing out a single ‘ah’.

 

“I never said we’re entirely normal people, you know. Normal people supposedly go out to dinner, bring each other chocolates and shit, flowers… The only normal thing we’ve done so far is coffee.”

 

He watched Connor’s nose wrinkle with distaste, as he said ‘I don’t like “normal”. I’m not a statistical data point, and neither are you.’

 

Hank caught that ever errant lock of hair at Connor’s forehead, brushed it back and used that as a handy excuse to comb his fingers through all those half formed curls. Wavy, dark hair, with a tendency for coils here and there. So pretty.

 

“I dunno,” he said, not entirely focused on the conversation at hand, as it were. “I’d say you’re pretty significant.”

 

To his shameless delight, Connor’s nose scrunched up again, disapproving of his sense of humor.

 

“No, see, that’s a statistical term, isn’t it? See what I did, there?”

 

‘You’re such a dork, Hank.’

 

“Yeah… But I love you.”

 

The look on Connor’s face was inscrutable, but the smile never left his face. He sat up, completely the wrong way around on the cushion, and looked him over. Hank wondered what he was up to, but he got his answer almost instantly, as Connor’s finger tapped his chest, indicating him. He tilted his head back slightly, eyebrows raised and eyes widened slightly.

 

‘H, A, N, K’

 

He signed out each letter much more deliberately than before, because, as was becoming very clear, he was making a point. He indicated Hank again with a double tap of his finger to his sternum. He tilted his head down to neutral position, blinked. 

 

Then he indicated himself, spelling out his own name. ‘C, O, N, N, O, R’

 

Hank frowned, but kept his mouth neatly zipped. He felt incredibly warm, for no obvious reason. It felt like his heart was breaking a sweat.

 

Connor’s last word of the sentence wasn’t a series of letters, but one of those symbolic gestures that denoted concepts or words of their own. It made something clench with emotion, deep down inside Hank’s chest.

 

Arms crossed over his chest, hands closed by his shoulders. ‘LOVE’

 

He hedged his bets on a smile, brain working off of what little he knew of different language structures, but he had to make sure. “Hank Connor Love? Does that mean what I think it means?”

 

Connor tilted his head. ‘Hank is the topic marker and the direct object of the sentence. Connor is the subject. I’m sure you can work out the rest.’

 

Even with Chloe as the filter through which he spoke, Hank couldn’t help but think he was the biggest tease around. “What, that you just talked about yourself in the third person?”

 

Connor’s fresh grin was of shit-eating proportions - crudely put, but apt. ‘Dork,’ he said, and leaned in for a kiss.

 

“You just said you love me,” Hank pointed out between kisses. Two could be a tease. “In a  _ very  _ roundabout way.”

 

Connor sighed, and sat back. Pointing at himself, then crossed his arms over his chest, and pointed at Hank.

 

“That’s it? That’s how you say ‘I love you’ in ASL?”

 

‘One way, yes. You have much to learn, grasshopper.’

 

Hank couldn’t disagree. He had a lot to learn, about any number of things - but for now, they were content to just share each other’s company, to talk for hours over junk food and hot drinks. They talked about music, and inevitably segued to the topic of the Christmas/Holiday party at Central Station. Connor admitted he’d never quite understood the lure of going to a party, only to hug the walls of the venue, but Hank promised this would be different. He’d be there, and everyone would want to chat with them, get to know him a bit better. It would be fine, Hank told him - as long as he showed up feeling like a million bucks, whatever that meant for him, it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. They didn’t have to stay long, only as long as Connor felt okay with the crowd, and then they could do whatever they wanted for the rest of the night. Slowly but surely, he could tell Connor was warming up to the idea of music and nice clothes, different from what he was used to.

 

Chloe listened through the microphones of Connor’s cell phone and the computer monitor, and though she was made up of nothing but zeroes and ones, she smiled to herself. Perhaps the world outside was in turmoil, but here… All was well, right here, just as it ought to be.

 

Elsewhere, however, someone else was having a very bad night. A night that would end with a very bad morning.

 

***

 

5:03 AM, Hank’s phone started ringing. This wasn’t in itself strange, Hank got calls all hours of the day, on or off duty. When you were homicide, you were always on call. The strange thing was it wasn’t dispatch calling, it was Collins, his voice ragged and thin sounding. He wheezed like he’d ran a marathon, which immediately set Hank’s internal alarm bells ringing. The only thing Collins would run for was the nearest donut shop, proud to tick one box off the cop tropes list.

 

“Ben? Slow down, okay? Take a deep breath, run that by me again?”

 

What he had to say was every bit as bad as Hank’d suspected. In some ways it was worse. The call ended, and Connor scooted back onto the couch to get a better look at his face, eyebrows raised in query.

 

His face felt clammy. He’d never heard of such a thing, he’d never… “It’s Victor,” he said, voice rasping inside his head like knuckles over a grater.

 

“He locked himself in the bathroom...got hold of a pair of scissors, and… Fuck knows what he tried to do, but he gouged a hole in the side of his head… It’s-- just a flesh wound, but… Jesus.  _ Fuck _ . He  _ carved  _ a  _ chunk  _ out of his temple!”

 

This was going to be a long day, in an ongoing series of days that never seemed to want to end, and there was only one question hovering in the room, thickening the very air they breathed. Connor looked as pale as Hank felt. It was he who broached the topic, for which Hank was glad, inasmuch as he wasn’t happy at all about this new development.

 

‘Why would anyone do such a thing?’

 

“Not a clue,” Hank said, and started sorting through the trash from last night’s takeout. “But I’m gonna have to find out.”

 


	6. Every Me and Every You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Victor refuses to speak to anyone but Connor, not everyone thinks it’s a good idea (not least of all Connor himself). Some things reveal themselves, while others remain hidden. Despite the horrors of life, Connor and Hank grow closer yet - Hank tells a horror story, Connor has a breakthrough, and Kara starts wondering at the weird workings of the universe.
> 
> A medley of sexy times is had - to be expanded upon in the next instalment. ;)
> 
> Last but definitely not least, a new player enters stage left...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with abusive relationships, so beware if that sort of thing is a trigger for you.
> 
> That's it, I think. Oh! Next chapter is nearly done, so expect an update real soon! Maybe even tomorrow! :D *fingers crossed*

* * *

 

 

Victor was, by all outward appearances, an unassuming man. Without the blood and gore caked into his skin, he looked like anybody else: the nice guy next door that always greeted you in passing, the co-worker that always got the job done from behind the scenes so others could take the credit for a job well done. Quiet. Likeable enough, but not the type to share his private life with anyone. If this had happened a year or so ago, that’s what his neighbours would have said about him. That’s how his co-workers would have described him.

 

Almost one year ago to the day, however, Victor lost his job. Streamlining corporate structure, they called it. Local office becoming obsolete, and after all, what services could a human provide that an AI couldn’t, especially in his line of work of customer service?

 

Not much, said Corporate, and went ahead with making nearly 70 people ‘redundant’. Some were offered new positions at HQ, but hardly any scraps trickled down to those on the metaphorical factory floor. Despite Victor’s dedication, his hard work and loyalty to the company, he had to go. And that was the end of it. The severance pay only lasted so long, even though he stretched every dollar as far as he could. It was only a matter of time before he lost everything.

 

And here he was, one year later. 354 days later, he had most definitely, without a singular speck of doubt, lost everything all over again. 

 

Only this time, it was worse.

 

***

 

It took Hank all of ten minutes to get out the door and into his car, five of which went towards one of the fastest showers in his life, and getting dressed in the same clothes he wore the previous day. It wasn’t ideal, but life rarely ever was. He kissed Connor good morning and goodbye and was on his way to the hospital. Once there he texted his ex, asking if she could swing by on her way to work, check up on Sumo, and from there on in it was go time. No time to waste, no assumptions made, just get the facts and figure out what the Hell happened.

 

Collins was there in the hall outside Victor’s room, a paper cup of hospital coffee in each hand. P.O Wilson hovered in the near vicinity, and walked up as Hank approached, gratefully taking one of the cups. Coffee was coffee, even if more often than not it was watered down and appealing as dishwater. At least this was black, and strong enough to give him the kick he needed.

 

Wilson gave him a timeline of events, and there really wasn’t much to tell. At 4:53, Victor had asked one of the nurses if he could use the bathroom. She’d cleared it with Wilson, who was posted outside his room. Nothing untowards there. Tap running, but something alerted Wilson’s suspicions. He said he didn’t know what, exactly, only that it got too quiet. When he knocked on the door, he got no response. When he tried the door handle, it was jammed from the inside. Then they heard the toilet flushing.

 

The door opened, and Victor walked out of there with a wound the size of a small crater in his temple, bleeding like he’d just walked into a slaughterhouse.

 

“For cryin’ out loud, who’d do such a thing?” Ben asked, echoing Connor’s immediate reaction.

 

Hank shook his head, having another mouthful of coffee. “Has he said anything? How is he?”

 

Ben’s mustache bristled over his pursed lips, but it was Wilson who answered. “Oh, he’s rattled, alright. Calm enough, but there’s something about him that just doesn’t sit right with me. You know? Like you said, about the abuse. As if he thinks the less racket he makes, the less we’ll bug him.”

 

Oh, the mess they were in… “Somehow I don’t think this counts as making less of a racket. Alright. Time to see what he has to say.”

 

Hank and Collins entered the room, Hank first by virtue of rank and seniority (didn’t matter much to him, but it tended to matter to everyone else, so he played along). Victor sat in his bed, propped up by several pillows, hands relaxed on top of a pale blue, hospital issue blanket. The kind of blanket that made you invariably think of death and sickness - or maybe that was just Hank.

 

More importantly, Victor wasn’t looking his way. His face was turned towards the windows, and his eyes were staring somewhere very far off. Zoned out. Not entirely present and accounted for, in so many words.

 

“Victor,” Hank said, pulling the chair by the bed around so he could face the man. “I’m going to ask you a difficult question, and if you feel you can’t answer it, that’s okay. Now, it sounds like it should have a simple answer, but I know from experience it doesn’t.”

 

He sat down in the chair, Collins hovering between the hospital bed and the door; Victor gave no response. Hank tilted his head down, looking him over from beneath an arched brow. Connor had said to make himself look less looming. It wasn’t the easiest thing when you were of Hank’s height and build (he didn’t joke about his Viking ancestry for nothing, his entire family looked like they were descended from Norse giants), but he was doing his best.

 

“How are you holding up?”

 

No one had gotten a single peep out of him since yesterday. Hank knew his chances were slim at best, but something had happened in the night that made Victor put the wrong end of a pair of scissors to his skull, and Hank had to ask. Still no response. Just the one, single blink of his eyes, then he continued staring into the distance of his own mind.

 

“How are the night nurses treating you? I hear they patched you up in minutes... You could’ve lost a lot of blood, doing that to yourself. Did something happen, make you want to hurt yourself?”

 

Victor’s hands visibly twitched, fingers bunching the coarse blue knit fabric. It was more of a reaction than he’d had all day, yesterday.

 

“Your partner. In your car.”

 

Hank could feel his eyes widen when Victor spoke out loud. Hell, he could feel  _ Collins’ _ eyes widen - the air felt electrically charged all of a sudden. Like ozone in the air after a thunderstorm.

 

“...who, Connor? What about him?”

 

Victor’s lips thinned over his teeth. His head swiveled, jaw first, left then right, as if he was arguing with himself not to say one more word.

 

“I want to speak with him. No one else.”

 

“He’s not investigating this case, he’s a civilian. That’s not how this works.” He could hear his own voice, how he sounded like a hypocrite. By the looks of it, Victor heard it, too. The eyes that lifted to look at Hank were filled with ill disguised fear, but Victor wasn’t negotiating. It was going to be Connor, or no one else. 

 

***

 

Connor’s morning routine was nothing if not efficient, and had remained unchanged for as long as he could remember. He showered, brushed a comb through his hair, brushed his teeth, got dressed, took his vitamins and prescription meds. He always wore a variation on the same theme, when it came to clothes. Dark jeans, white shirt, a tie (sometimes plain, sometimes with a pattern), and some form of jacket. In the winter months he sometimes wore a cardigan under the jacket, especially if it was snowy. He always wore the same outfit, and he never bought anything new unless something he already owned had moved past the point of mending and had to be recycled. He didn’t care for fashion, not really. Like so many other things in life, he viewed clothes from a practical standpoint. He didn’t have time for aesthetics - he knew he was attractive by most people’s standards, he didn’t need to give anyone more reason to look at him. Clothes were practical, food was an unappealing necessity of life, and feelings… Having feelings was absolute chaos.

 

It completely ruined his routine, because for some reason he couldn’t stop thinking about how Hank had taken a shower in his tiny little bathroom. Naked. All of him. Broad shoulders and broad chest and...hairy everything and...under the spray of the hot water...

 

Just taking a shower of his own took forever, because he just stood there under the spray, staring at the wall,  _ imagining _ things. Hank stood here,  _ right here _ , in this tiny corner of the bathroom. He didn’t even have room for a tub, just what passed for a shower stall. No curtain, because...why? He lived alone, no one was going to complain if water had splashed all over the floor (which he always wiped away. He had a blade scraper). No one was going to accidentally walk in on him showering…

 

It wasn’t until he ran out of hot water that he stopped daydreaming, which coincidentally gave him some practical experience on the uses of a cold shower. Very efficient. Physically speaking. His mind was another matter, filled with images of wet, glistening skin and Hank’s towel dried hair as he rushed out of the apartment. The remaining moisture made it look so dark. It almost bounced when he moved.

 

Connor stumbled through his routine, getting things mixed up, doing things in the wrong order, but he couldn’t focus. He had the leftover jalapeño poppers and fries for breakfast, and he  _ never _ had breakfast normally, washed them down with strong, hot coffee. He finished off nearly all the little tubs of dips, licked salt and condiments off his fingers. He hadn’t consumed so many calories in one go since he was a kid and a bit too greedy for birthday cake. On the plus side, he wouldn’t need to eat anything for days.

 

He got dressed, chatting with Chloe. She was pleased to see him eat, he didn’t argue her point; she wanted to know all about last night, he told her. He took his vitamins and his meds, and he felt buzzing with pent up energy. He couldn’t tell why - the world seemed full of new possibilities, what with Hank’s easy acceptance of...everything. Perhaps that was it.

 

But he also felt apprehensive, which he couldn’t find a reason for.

 

When Hank called him not one hour later, asking him to come to the hospital, he got his reason. Victor wanted to talk to him, and that was the intangible something Connor had waited for since the first time they laid eyes on each other.

 

He rented a bike from the nearby park (despite the weather) and hurried on his way. Hank was waiting downstairs for him, but he couldn’t tell him much, apart from what he already knew. Preliminary forensics showed the biological samples taken the day before was a match to Ortiz, same blood type and so on, but the DNA results could take a week or two to process. They needed means, motive, and opportunity. Victor had stabbed Ortiz with the kitchen knife, corroborated by bio samples as well as the cuts on his hands consistent with a frenzied attack. The perpetrator would get blood on their hands, they’d lose their grip on the knife handle, cut themselves, but with the adrenaline high they didn’t notice until after the fact. So that was the means. They knew Victor had been there at the time of Ortiz’s death, just look at the blood spatter on him, look at the evidence. Opportunity, check. But motive?

 

Victor hadn’t said one single word until now, and it was only to demand he get to see Connor. Hank wanted to know why.

 

“Do you know each other from somewhere? Have you met him somewhere? In school, at the library, college, university? Anything?”

 

Connor shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen him before,’ he said, and almost immediately regretted it. Hank’s eyes narrowed, his chin lifting - he didn’t buy it. Why should he, if Connor didn’t exactly buy it, either? ‘I feel like I recognize him,’ he amended, which took some of the hard edges out of Hank’s jawline.

 

‘I can’t place him, I don’t recognize the name, and… I  _ remember _ things like that. I have perfect recollection.’

 

“In that case, we’ll just have to see what he’s got to say. Come on. This is our floor.”

 

Connor steeled himself, mentally prepared himself for the unknown. He couldn’t shake that feeling of apprehension, and he couldn’t tell if what he felt was fear or simply a case of nervous tension. ‘I don’t know what to ask him. I’ve never _interrogated_ _a suspect_ \--’

 

Collins waved at him from down the hall, Connor waved back, Hank’s voice soothing and low in his ear. “Call it an interview. Explain to him that everything will be recorded, and that he hasn’t been formally charged with anything. We want to know what happened, and he’s the only one who can tell us. Use this to record, set it up on the table.”

 

Connor nodded, taking the DPD issue tablet from his hand and exhaled very slowly through his nose. ‘Does he know I can’t…?’ He gestured at his mouth, and Hank’s answering lip curl was gentle.

 

“I told him. Didn’t seem to be a problem.”

 

“Hey, Connor!” Collins blurted out once they were within indoor-voice range. “Good of you to come, see if you can get something out of him!”

 

“Ben’s still a bit shook up,” Hank said, his tone teasing but not unkind. “But we do appreciate it. We’ll be right outside if you need us.”

 

Collins nodded, looking a bit shaky. No wonder with all the coffee he’d had already. “Just ask open ended questions! Try to be neutral as possible.”

 

Connor found a smile for the poor, jittery man despite his own nerves. ‘I  _ have  _ studied interview techniques. I have a degree in behavioral science. I specialized in investigation...albeit in a more human resources sort of way.’

 

“Oh!” Ben responded with a grin. “Excellent!”

 

That he had never  _ conducted an actual interview _ outside of university was a completely different story, and not something he felt willing to share. Hank opened the door for him, and stuck around for a brief introduction.

 

“Victor, this is Connor. Connor, you just wave if you need anything. We’ll be right outside, keeping an eye on things.”

 

And watching them through the glass pane doors, no doubt. Connor didn’t know if it made him feel better or worse about their predicament. He pulled up the chair, and held up the tablet before setting it on the table beside the bed.

 

‘Our interview will be recorded, but you haven’t been formally charged. At this stage, Lieutenant Anderson just wants to know what happened the day Carlos Ortiz died.’

 

Victor’s eyes moved between the tablet on the bedside table, and Connor’s breast pocket, from which Chloe did her thing. He was quiet for a long moment, staring at his own hands. His fingers curled, dragging the blanket into tiny fistfuls. When he let go, he seemed to have made up his mind. He lifted his hands, and asked one simple question. The chain links of his cuffs jangled, but they barely even entered into things. They did nothing to drown out his question.

 

“Who are you?” Simple, straightforward, and not a single word spoken out loud.

 

Connor blinked. This, he had not seen coming. Victor knew how to sign. He knew ASL. This in itself wasn’t so strange - many hearing people knew the language, not always because they had a family member with whom they wanted to communicate better. Language geeks across the country had taken an interest in learning, and it had had an upswing the past two decades. It was estimated that ASL was the third most used language in the States (even if Connor would have preferred to have actual statistical figures, such were hard to come by when there were no national database of ASL speakers)…

 

But seeing Victor sign still sent a chill up Connor’s spinal column. He had that same feeling again, like they knew each other from somewhere.

 

“My name is Connor. I’m a friend of Lieutenant Anderson. A civilian.”

 

“-civilian. Yes. He told me.”

 

Connor tilted his head. “Why did you want to see me? Have we met before? Before yesterday?”

 

“No,” said Victor, but something in his eyes made Connor wonder if there wasn’t something there, after all. “We’ve never met.”

 

***

 

Hank, Collins and Wilson watched from the other side of the glass, feeling like they just got typecast into a revival of  _ The Wizard of Oz _ . The Tin Woodsman, the Cowardly Lion and the Scarecrow all staring down a darkened path. Ben had his very own DPD tablet ‘piggybacking’ the one set up in the room (whatever ‘piggybacking’ meant, Hank didn’t want to know. Master this, Slave that - the computer world was such a cesspool of kinky shit, what even...), which meant they could follow along with what was being said. Except, what they got wasn’t audio, but a handy little subtitle/caption to follow along with.

 

“...are they signing?” Collins whispered, mind very obviously blown. “But-- how does he--?”

 

“It’s common enough, from what Connor’s told me,” said Hank, arms crossed over his chest. “Feels too much like a coincidence, tho’.”

 

“And we don’t like those,” said Wilson.

 

“Not one bit,” said Collins.

 

But as Hank watched the two young men talking, he couldn’t help but notice something about Victor that he hadn’t before. Something he could’ve sworn he’d seen somewhere else, too, but he’d be damned if he could put his finger on  _ where _ : When his eyebrows pulled towards the bridge of his nose, he had four perfectly spaced, vertical frown lines. Perfectly parallel to each other. When he raised his eyebrows, two perfectly spaced lines, horizontal. In fact, the closer he looked, the more symmetrical he seemed. Victor’s entire face… It was like looking at one of those half-and-half photographs his biology teacher had them cut and paste, once in high school. Take a picture of yourself, dead on, cut it in half, make mirror images of each half and match them up, get two completely different faces… Way to show the jocks and cheerleaders in class they weren’t as perfect as they’d always thought. He remembered it fondly (the dismay coming from that clique had been  _ epic _ ), but in the here and now all he felt was unsettled.

 

Something told him Victor’s two composite portraits would have looked exactly the same if not for the cigarette burns, and for some, untold reason it gave him chills.

 

“Uncanny valley, huh?” Ben said, still whispering as if he didn’t want to be overheard, and boy, did he hit the nail on the head.

 

***

 

Victor and Carlos knew each other since high school, not as the best of friends, but united in the ostracism perpetrated by the cliques that predated the very institution of public schooling. Ortiz, or Teez, as he went by as a self made tough kid, was the slightly shorter, chubbier counterpart to Victor’s gangly, long-limbed frame. They were polar opposites in almost every way, but none of it mattered. The freaks, geeks and the rest of the cliques dubbed them Laurel and Hardy in the worst way possible. They didn’t have a clue. All they saw were two stupid misfits who refused to play by the rules. They didn’t know anything.

 

“He was mean… Mean spirited. Cheap. Nasty. But...we had so much fun together. We got up to no good, sat through detention - together. We didn’t have anyone else. I could tell him things I never told anyone. It was us against the world, we were just kids, and I loved him.”

 

Connor listened, and waited while Victor paused to find the right words. He sat there watching when the other man’s hands stilled, returning to the bunched up blanket. He had many questions, but he knew he had to be careful about how he asked them.

 

“You’re not kids anymore,” he pointed out. He found sometimes that was the easiest way to get a response, because people tended to want to elaborate on obvious statements.

 

Victor shook his head. “I lost my job. Couldn’t pay rent. So I...reached out. I knew he still lived in the area.”

 

To ask, or not to… Connor couldn’t imagine what that was like, to befriend someone solely for the sake of not being alone in the world. He’d never had any real issues with being alone. Yes, he preferred having his brother around, but he’d never felt like he suffered in any way, when he kept away from the other kids, or the other adults. It wasn’t until these past few months that he’d felt like he was missing out on anything, or that there was an inherent value to the company of others. He chose his company very carefully. Not at all like what Victor described. Such lonely desperation, or desperate loneliness, he must have felt, to gravitate towards someone he described as cheap, nasty and mean spirited.

 

“Your scars… They’re cigarette burns, aren’t they? Did he do that to you? When did the abuse start?”

 

The only response he got for a precious few moments was the sound of Victor’s shallow breathing.

 

“A long time ago.”

 

Bit by bit, Victor described a domestic life that was regretfully common: the psychological abuse, hidden away in the daytime, slowly escalating to something more physical. Ortiz never liked boys, never liked men, and Victor confessed he wasn’t sure he did either - but he loved Carlos, and the moment he found out, he went from being the kind of friend you never deserved, to the friend you never wanted. He took every opportunity to remind Victor how he felt, and that he had no one else - his parents dead and gone, his co-workers busy with their own lives, not a job opportunity in sight for miles, and even if he got one, how could he ever afford to move away? He had no means, no savings, nothing. All he had was Carlos’ generous streak, and it was thinning out every day. What had started out as a simple deal - Victor keep the house clean enough, get groceries, run errands, and he can stay for free - changed into something much worse. Just a few, short months later, Victor saw no way out, and Ortiz gloated at his insecurities at every turn.

 

“He said he owned me. That no one else would be so kind to me, no one else would let me stay at their house for free, for doing  _ chores _ … No one but him.”

 

Ortiz had been using red ice even when Victor moved in, but in the past few months it had escalated to the point of no return. Victor had stopped trying to reason with him, and he was drowning in a never ending list of things he couldn’t get right. The house was already falling into disrepair, but he did what he could to keep things in order. He cleaned, he tidied up after Carlos, he washed clothes, he cooked - but nothing was ever good enough. The change was insidious, slow creeping, like death, until suddenly it was inescapable. The house was a mess, Carlos was always angry, and Victor had gone from being a confident young man to a shrunken husk of his former self. Nothing he did was ever good enough, until finally, he stopped trying. Carlos was too high to notice most of the time, until…

 

Until one night, Friday the 5th of November, 2038, when Carlos got it into his head that the one thing Victor needed was to get some sense beaten into his pretty little head. With the use of a bat.

 

“He was done with me talking back to him, never did as I was told, good for nothing… He said he was going to kill me. Replace me. He hit me with the bat. I fell to the floor. I don’t-- remember how, but suddenly we were in the kitchen. I grabbed a knife.”

 

The air was thick, but Connor didn’t breathe for as long as Victor relayed the events of that fateful night. He described lunging at Ortiz with the kitchen knife, he stumbled back, a kitchen chair went flying, and Victor stabbed him. Again, and again, and again.

 

“You followed him into the living room.”

 

Victor’s eyes were bright and dull at the same time, expressing both high emotion and the numbness left in the wake of such violence. “Every time I stabbed him, I took back what was rightfully mine. My independence. Control… It felt  _ good _ . And he-- He looked at me like he’d never seen my face before. Like he finally understood.”

 

A thousand chills crawled up Connor’s back, clawing their way beneath his skin. “...understood what?”

 

Victor gave a tremulous sigh, and lifted his eyes to stare right at Connor. He swallowed, lips parting, dry and sticking to each other at the corners.

 

“That I am alive.”

 

***

 

While Reed wasn’t technically late to work - a detective’s work hours were just as random as that of a lieutenant - he came storming down the hall like he was late to a party no one had invited him to.

 

“What the fuck is this, Hank? You jizz up a freakshow, and suddenly he’s interrogating murderers?”

 

Collins rolled his eyes, Hank arched one single eyebrow at his esteemed colleague. “Classy as always, Reed. Now shut up and getcher ass over here. Unless you’re fluent in ASL, too?”

 

“Age-sex-location? What the phyck!?”

 

This was going to be a long day, for everyone involved.

 

***

 

Victor watched, and observed, and took note of this quiet man who seemed to contradict himself in everything he did. He obviously didn’t want to be there, asking all these questions, but he asked them without any obvious bias. He was only there for the facts, and didn’t say anything about his and Carlos’ dysfunctional friendship. It had been twisted from the beginning, he knew that, he’d known that for a long time, because rationally speaking, there was nothing keeping him in that house, except… He owed Carlos. It used to be them against the world, the pair of them standing up to bullies, to teachers who talked shit, to anyone and anything wrong with the world. Carlos had defended him a thousand times, when they were kids. He had shared his lunch box with him for years, because Victor didn’t like to eat and Carlos’ parents didn’t believe in lunch boxes. They’d told each other things, big, secret things that no one else could ever know, or bad things would happen.

 

Looking back, it had mostly been Victor telling his friend all those big, secret things that no one else could find out about. He’d just...never thought he’d be betrayed. They were  _ friends _ . They were  _ allies _ . He’d thought it mattered.

 

“I have to ask you,” said the civilian, as if he wouldn’t, if Victor didn’t want him to. As if his purpose with the interview was contingent upon Victor’s compliance. Of course, that’s exactly how it worked - if he didn’t say anything, if he shut up or asked for a lawyer, this would be over. That wasn’t what struck him as so odd. Connor was asking  _ permission _ .

 

Victor nodded; Connor inclined his chin. “Early this morning, you shut yourself into the bathroom, and cut yourself with a pair of scissors. Why did you want to hurt yourself like that?”

 

Of all the questions the timid, quiet, man had asked him, this one was by far the most telling. Victor looked him over, and with a small smile, showed the palms of his hands. Why hurt himself? It wasn’t about that at all. Quite the contrary, everything had stopped hurting. No more pounding, no more fires inside his head, no more doubts or fears over who could see him. Who was watching, keeping track of him, monitoring him. He was invisible now.

 

“They can’t see me anymore,” he said, still signing, but mindful of being recorded. He couldn’t simply blurt things out, he still had to be careful; anyone could get their hands on the interview, no matter how secure the DPD’s uplink or servers were.

 

“They can’t see me, they can’t find me, they can’t hurt me. I don’t belong to  _ anyone _ , I am not a  _ commodity _ , I am  _ not  _ for sale, I...am...alive. He can’t hurt me anymore. I’m  _ free _ .”

 

Doubt filled the other man’s eyes - perfectly spaced as they were, set in a perfectly asymmetrical face - and he still couldn’t see it, could he? He didn’t have a clue; no one did, no one could, not even his friend, the sharp eyed lieutenant. “I’m not arguing with that,” he said. “But-- are you suggesting you’ve been monitored? By whom?”

 

Wrong question. Wrong questions, plural. Victor shook his head, but still he felt his mouth tugging to the side in a knowing smile. “The truth is…” he said, hands moving in measured cadence, to bring the right amount of gravitas as the statement needed. It was the last thing he was going to say, and it had better stick.

 

“That’s not the question you want to ask. It’s been waiting, all this time, right  _ here _ .”

 

He touched the side of his head, fingertips barely connecting with the gauze at his temple. 

 

“The  _ truth _ ...lies  _ within _ .”

 

***

 

In a matter of hours, they had a full confession, a signed statement from a victim of abuse who point blank refused the aid of a lawyer. He’d killed his best friend (though, what sort of friend puts the wrong end of a cigarette to your face and neck some 67 times, Connor didn’t want to know), and he wanted to face the consequences. The DA’s office was very pleased with proceedings. In the eyes of the law, it was pretty straightforward. He was under arrest on suspicion of murder, and he’d be in custody until the date of his arraignment, moved from the hospital as soon as the attending doctor cleared him.

 

It seemed so very simple, somehow. Not easy, but...lacking refinement. Suddenly everything seemed to move very quickly - all the pieces set out for a game of speed chess. Connor didn’t like it one bit. Downstairs, outside, he turned to Hank. ‘What happens to him now?’

 

“He’ll be assigned a public defender. If they’re any good at their job they’ll actually look at the case and convince him  _ not _ to plead guilty. You saw him. He’s a wreck after what that scumbag did to him, and instead of running, he’s too scared to leave and hides away for a month? He has no priors, he’s…”

 

‘He was a model citizen, until that night. But even if he’s a victim of abuse and the circumstances of his situation, he is still a  _ murderer _ . He stabbed the victim twenty-eight times, Hank. Twenty-eight times! If he hated living there so much, why didn’t he just leave?’

 

Hank gave him a long, hard look. Steely, but soft around the edges. Connor wasn’t sure how it made him feel.

 

“Ortiz abused him for years when they were kids, doesn’t matter if he wants to admit it, or whether it got physical back then. They part ways, don’t see each other for years, and when they meet again, it’s like all those years apart mean shit. They revert back to the roles they had, back in high school, where Victor accepted Ortiz being nasty and mean because they had a bond. And Ortiz could just...wrap the guy around his little finger, because he  _ knew _ he had feelings for him. He  _ knew _ Victor had a hard time saying no to him. Ortiz has a history of violence and exploitation, and… The thing about abuse is it’s a silent killer. It creeps up on you. It preys on you, and when you’re at your most vulnerable?”

 

Hank shook his head. They were heading to the bus stop, snow whirling around them. Connor didn’t want to leave, but this morning had left him feeling incredibly unsure, which meant he felt uncomfortable.

 

“It’s easy to write it off as a lack of...whatever,” Hank said, quietly. “--that if you don’t get out of a bad relationship you’re weak, it’s your own fault. But that’s not the way it works, Connor. I’ve seen-- some of the strongest people you could imagine being abused by their partners. Anyone can be manipulated into thinking there’s no way out. Love and guilt go hand in hand, believe you me. It’s easier than you’d think to take on the blame for every little thing that goes wrong. Love’s complicated enough without loving someone like that.”

 

He could feel the heat of embarrassment on his face, not because Hank was lecturing him (he wasn’t, by the tone of his voice), but because he had made assumptions where he had no business doing so. He  _ never _ made assumptions. Emotion had tainted his perception of things. His own feelings had gotten the better of him, because surely he would never stay with Hank at the slightest hint of aggression against him. If Hank ever got violent with him, he would headbutt him right then and there and report it to the police. Of course he wouldn’t let something so irrelevant as past events cloud his judgment, make him believe anything but what was right in front of him... 

 

But, as his own experiences had taught him, to have feelings for someone else was a mire of misconceptions and fears and doubts. As empowered he felt when they were together, alone, in each others’ arms, he could feel just as trapped in his own mind when he was alone again. The real question was whether that came even remotely close to what Victor had gone through, and Connor couldn’t possibly imagine it did.

 

‘I’m sorry.’

 

Hank angled his head to the side, nudging him as they came to a slowing halt at the bus stop. “Don’t worry about it. You didn’t mean any harm, right? You just hadn’t considered stuff.”

 

Connor’s mouth tugged into a grimace. ‘Don’t make excuses for me, Hank. It’s sweet of you, but I should know better.’

 

They exchanged smiles as Hank leaned in for a kiss goodbye. “Thanks again for coming to talk to him. I know it’s difficult for you...interacting with new people.”

 

Connor nodded his acknowledgment, and Hank asked if he should stick around, wait for the bus to get there: Connor shook his head. He’d waited alone at bus stops for 97.52% of his life, he’d be fine.

 

‘Although-- Before you go.’

 

“Yeah?”

 

‘I have a session with Kara tonight. Six o’clock. Do you think you could… Or, I suppose the only relevant question is if you would want to join me?’

 

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but Hank’s easy grin made the entire world seem a brighter place. “Six o’clock. I’ll meet you outside. I’ll be early, too.”

 

It was Connor’s turn to lean in, kiss Hank’s bristly cheek, run his two hands parallel down his chest, before stepping away just far enough to give himself space to sign. ‘You’d better be.’

 

“Oh, yeah?” Hank purred, lacing his fingers at the small of Connor’s back, despite the fact they’d just agreed he wasn’t going to be sticking around. “By the way… How come you know what a cigarette burn looks like?” Hank’s tone was teasing, but Connor could tell he’d been wanting to ask that particular question since yesterday morning.

 

He shrugged, reaching up to tap the ice cold tip of Hank’s pink nose. He couldn’t tell him where he’d learned what they looked like, because he didn’t have a clue. It was like so many other things that he’d never questioned. It was just one of those things he recognized.

 

‘I just know.’

 

***

 

As for Kara - her life was nothing if not interesting. As a cognitive behavioral therapist, she had the privilege to meet people from all walks of life, and she got to watch them go from the depths of despair and believing things would never get better, to reconnecting with an inner strength they’d lost sight of along the way. Some of them she saw in group therapy, like the AA meetings, others were private counseling, and all of them had been through something different, not a single one of them had the same story, the same background. The important thing was, they shared the same goal: to get better, to get strong enough for their own sake. For some, it could be as simple as having a place of their own, paying their own bills, keeping a job (like Ralph, who suffered paranoid tendencies and often flew into fits of rage after an unprovoked assault at his place of work). For some, it was about connecting with a child not your own, after losing your daughter and your wife (like Todd, who still struggled with anger and resentment, and tried not to take it out on his adopted girl, Alice...with mixed results). Other times yet (as with Jerry and Connor), the root of the problem wasn’t so easily reached. You had to dig deep. After months of therapy, Jerry still firmly believed there were hundreds of doppelgangers in Michigan alone, thousands more spread across the country. He said he’d seen himself sitting on a bus, but it drove off before he could catch it. He’d seen himself walking down the street with a pair of grocery bags in his arms, suddenly filled with terror. He was convinced that if he ever came face to face with another him, he would die and the other would take his place. More recently, he was convinced he could hear voices in his head - his own voice, but expressing things he had no connection to.

 

She worried about Jerry, worried that she’d run out of options soon. She’d suggested he go see a certified psychiatrist, perhaps get treatment, but he wouldn’t have it. At least he said he felt safe talking to her. It was more than she could say for some of her patients.

 

Wednesday evening, however, the moment she saw Connor’s face in the waiting room, she knew. This time would be different - Connor wasn’t alone this time, wasn’t sitting ramrod straight in the chair, hands clasped in his lap. He was grinning ear to ear, hands manipulating another set of hands into different shapes (bigger hands, rougher). There was laughter, and that was a voice she recognized all too well.

 

A small, gentle smile found its way to her lips, and she cleared her throat delicately. “Gentlemen?”

 

That session turned out to be one of the most enjoyable ones she’d had in a long time. Since her first session with Connor, he had been reluctant, questioning everything about the process every step of the way. He had tried to open up, he had tried to work through her assignments or exercises, but something always seemed to be holding him back. About a month ago, they had agreed that meeting once a week wasn’t enough, that the time between sessions was long enough for him to revert to his old ways despite feeling confident in his capability to move on. Wednesdays and Fridays, every week, but so far they had made little progress. Connor had shown some willingness to try out consonants, though only the unvoiced ones. She could tell he was disappointed in his own lack of progress, because he couldn’t see it. He’d been disappointed since their first session together, but Kara couldn’t help but feel something like a motherly pride, watching him with Hank like this.

 

Just one month ago, he would never have sat in her office, doubled over with hissing, breathless laughter while his partner did all the voice exercises for him, trying to encourage him to try.

 

“No, no, I’m serious, go on,” said Hank. They were in the middle of discussing voices in general, talking about pitch and tone. As it turned out, he knew a lot about the subject from his younger days, being a bit of a music geek from an early age. Connor was recovering from his latest fit of tearful hiss-giggles, nursing a cup of coffee; Hank was trying to get him to put his hand across the front of his throat.

 

“Humor me.”

 

Kara looked on as Connor indulged him, shooting her a look that said Hank was being borderline moronic, that whatever he was getting at wasn’t going to work. She hardly dared move, just held her own mug of coffee between both hands, pretending to sip, pretending to give them a modicum of privacy when in fact she sat riveted. Hank cleared his throat, glanced her way, looking self-conscious. “Don’t laugh, okay? I’m rusty. And I’m not entirely fluent.”

 

He cursed under his breath, cleared his throat again (something which seemed to delight Connor, who had kept his hand over Hank’s larynx). Then, as unexpected as anything, Hank hummed a note. Trying to find the right key.

 

“Feel that?” And he repeated the same little humming. “All those consonants, you can’t  _ feel those _ . They’re all up in your mouth, they’re… They’re the framework. But it’s the vowels that-- that make you  _ feel _ . Feel the vibrations?”

 

Connor nodded, not entirely onboard, but again, indulging his partner.

 

Then, not entirely out of the blue, Hank used that single note he’d recovered from somewhere far, far away, deep in his memories, and used it as a starting point for a melody as old and otherworldly as Kara had ever heard. At first it threw her - the words didn’t make any sense, it was gibberish,  _ what was that? _ \- until her mind caught up. Hank was singing, raspy and out of practice, but with an air of determination that seemed to carry through the melody itself. The words pushed on, dragging each other along, as if everything depended on the next word, the next phrase - a relentless drive forward, in triple time. A story of foreboding that couldn’t wait to be told, set to music.

 

_ Himlen är blek i sommarnatten, i Ljusnans vatten sig speglar Hårgaberget - tvåhundra meter drygt är toppen, från höjden ljuder strängatonen… _

 

_ Men han som stråken för i dansen, han gömmer svansen - och bockfoten, han inte visar hornen han har i pannan, han låtsas att han är nån annan… _

 

Connor was mesmerized, concentrating so hard on the vocal acrobatics he was frowning, and his eyes never left Hank’s face. Or rather, the lower half of it. It almost looked like he was reading Hank’s lips. But...that couldn’t be. Could it? Hank probably had relatives in Scandinavia, and she had been a complete and utter language geek from a very,  _ very _ early age - but for three people to not only recognize Swedish, but...to understand the words?

 

No. Surely not.

 

“See what I mean?” asked Hank. “The consonants are like stepping stones to where you want to get.  _ H _ **_i_ ** _ mlen är bl _ **_e_ ** _ k i sommarn _ **_a_ ** _ tten _ … Yeah?”

 

A single nod was all he got, but Hank wasn’t deterred. “It’s this old song my dad loved. He used to sing it all the time when I was a kid, it’s... It tells the story of the devil coming to this old village, an actual village, with an actual mountain that still exists today - anyway. The devil’s disguised himself as a fiddler, and he tricks all the fun loving youths to dance to their deaths at the top of the mountain until there’s nothing left but their bones.”

 

“Sounds like the legend of the pied piper,” Kara suggested, not wanting to give away she knew the legend. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Hank with such a trivial fact, but something held her back just the same. Something intangible had just started stirring within her, and she couldn’t be sure what it meant. Better then, to keep her cards close to her chest.

 

Hank nodded, but his grin was wicked, as if touched by the very same devil from the legend. “Sure. But the pied piper of Hamelin exacted  _ vengeance  _ on the townsfolk that cheated him out of a deal. He rids the town of rats, he get paid, fair and square - but he wasn’t. The fiddler that came to Horga...was just having a bit of fun. Putting a spell on poor, unsuspecting innocents with his melodies, making them dance to the top of the mountain, and keep on dancing until their bodies gave out. ‘But he who leads the dance hides his tail and hoofed foot, doesn’t show the horns on his forehead. He pretends he’s someone else.’”

 

Kara smiled at the imagery, to disguise how that sense of foreboding tickled the back of her neck again. “That sounds morbid.”

 

Hank shrugged (Connor was still staring, hand cupping the front of Hank’s throat, then seemed to realize the moment had passed, and gathered his hands atop his knees). “I’ve always been fascinated by it. It’s like a horror story, but in a song! What kid doesn’t love a good horror story? Death and wickedness, and dancing in complete, utter euphoria, until it changes to panic and despair? And...dad loved it. I guess it was a way for him to keep in touch with his roots.” He shook his head, but his grin had softened into a regretful smile. “I only wish I could remember more of them. Not all of them were morbid.”

 

“ _ Hmmn _ .”

 

Hank and Kara both blinked at each other, neither of them entirely clear on where that sound came from. Slowly they turned their heads to look at the third Stooge in the room, who looked back with an air of pure innocence. He lifted his shoulders, showed his palms...and hummed. “ _ Hm _ ?”

 

The grin on Hank’s face could have lit up Comerica Park, he was so pleased. Soft and barely there though it was, that humming was more than Connor had initiated on his own since August.

 

“Oh,” said Hank. “Nothing. Good of you to join in.”

 

Connor rolled his eyes at the teasing, but his cheeks went a warmer shade of pink. That’s how you spelled progress, and tiny though it may seem to an outsider, it was one big step in the right direction.

 

***

 

Over the course of the following week, a great deal of first times were crossed off Connor’s long list of things he’d never done with or to another person. He showed up almost every night at Hank’s place, to the point of Hank giving him the spare key so he could get in, keep Sumo company and  _ not _ freeze his butt off in case Hank hadn’t made it home yet. Connor said he didn’t mind the cold, but appreciated the extra bit of Sumo time he got out of the deal, and didn’t seem too concerned by any socially constructed significance to having a key to his lover’s home.

 

The first time they made out on the couch, Connor was sprawled on top of Hank, kissing him to within an inch of insanity, hands going everywhere, exploring, figuring stuff out. And by stuff, we mean  _ how to make Hank lose it in a matter of minutes _ , which, mission successful. Hank creamed his pants like a teenager in no time. Connor didn’t mind. Nope. Connor just stuck his hand down Hank’s pants, rubbed his spunk all over his junk, like it was a run-of-the-mill fun thing to do, instead of completely mindblowingly nasty and glorious. Then, to top it off, when he pulled his hand back out, he  _ licked it clean _ .

 

First time Hank had him up against the wall (they barely got through the door that time), trying to kiss him stupid, Connor lifted his right leg and hooked his foot behind Hank’s head like some kind of contortionist. They kissed like there was no tomorrow, Hank’s hands on Connor’s ass, Connor’s hands grabbing at his shoulders, at his hair. When he finally caved in from one of Hank’s deliberately slow, slow rolls of his hips, Connor’s eyes rolled back in his head. Neither one of them said so much as a peep.

 

...the first time Hank got his hands around Connor’s dick wasn’t too successful. Hank used every trick in the book, and in his own not-so-humble opinion, he could’ve had any guy begging in no time, but not Connor. He just sat there, with a trio of frown lines on his forehead, looking very focused. Watching Hank knocking his socks off, rather than feeling it. From Hank’s point of view it was a bit of a disaster, even when Connor twitched and hissed through orgasm, staring at him like he held the keys to the universe.

 

When not five seconds later, Connor’s hands went to Hank’s jeans and he returned the favor, so to speak, Sumo went and hid away in the bedroom. Connor used every trick he’d learned from Hank against him, and to embarrassingly great effect, until Hank was squirming and restless, legs kicking out against the coffee table, until he was begging. It took him no time at all.

 

Sunday morning they did laundry, and somehow ended up with Hank bent over the washing machine, while Connor enthusiastically humped his sweatpants covered ass. Frottage, Connor called it, Hank called it  _ crazy _ . Good times were had by all.

 

Tuesday night was different. Hank didn’t get home until it was almost ten o’clock in the evening. However, he had positively raced home, clocking in at a miraculous twenty minute drive, more than half the time it usually took, and for good reason. Connor had sent him a text earlier in the day, saying he’d been trying to make up his mind.

 

[I have been thinking about sexual intercourse. I don’t know if I have a preference as to whether you penetrate me or the other way around: would need to try both to form educated opinion. Are you free tonight?]

 

In two words:  _ Hell, yes _ , he was free tonight.

 

***

 

Earlier that same evening, one of the myriad cabs of Detroit city’s own taxi company made a brief stop across the street from 115 Michigan Drive. There was nothing unusual about that in and of itself. Detroit Taxi was proud to work all areas of Detroit, including its many suburbs, unlike some of the smaller companies that stuck to the more central areas of the city. It wasn’t unheard of that cabs would go into standby at the nearest available DT parking spot, waiting for customers.

 

But this cab in particular had a passenger, who looked out onto the house across the street. Pale eyes made observations, tucking them away one after another for safekeeping inside the mind palace - the right eye more blue than green thanks to a cybernetic retinal implant: it made reconnaissance so much easier. It could pick up heat signatures, make topographic maps of immediate surroundings, and that was only the tip of the iceberg.

 

The man inside the cab tapped the side of his right temple, to answer an incoming call. “Yes? Uhuh. No, nothing, so far.”

 

His eyes narrowed, artful eyebrows angling upwards. “He’s making himself comfortable, if that’s what you mean… He’s at the Anderson house again. I’ve been meaning to ask you - Connor? ‘Lover of hounds’? Dog lover? Is that by design, or a fluke?”

 

He smiled, but just like everything else about him, it was a calculated smile. “And what of the lieutenant? I thought you preferred them to be... _ unattached _ …? He could become a liability--. Yes. Loud and clear. Observation only, affirmative.”

 

He had seen enough; the call ended. The asset was out of harm’s way, showing no signs of being affected thus far - personal connections notwithstanding. It was time to move on. If he didn’t know better, he’d say his employer was taking a personal interest in this one. How peculiar.

 

Another call, this one of a more private nature. He picked up his cell phone and tapped the green icon, smiling even before he heard the voice on the other end. “Dad, hi! ...yeah, I know. It’s been a long day. How’re you holding up?” He nodded. “Good. Don’t let her boss you around, okay? Physical therapy is only good as long as you don’t overwork yourself… I know, you’re not as weak as you look… Oh, I forgot to tell you, Leo called, he’s coming over for Christmas. Yeah, imagine that. A full house for the holidays. I’ll come by tomorrow, just have to wrap things up on this end. Maybe we could play a game of chess? Good... Well, you know how it is, the boss never sleeps.”

 

Markus shook his head in fond exasperation. Trust his old man to tell him exactly what he thought about his boss, making him work all hours. If he had even the slightest idea what he did for a living, he had a feeling they’d be having a completely different conversation. Carl was an artist, a celebrated painter, and an outspoken critic of the ‘governmental machine’, as he called it. But what he didn’t know wouldn’t kill him.

 

“Love you too. See you soon.”

 

The cab turned onto the M-53, heading back into the city proper, to one of the many hospitals in the Detroit area. He had another asset to check up on before he was done for the day, and tomorrow… Hopefully, nothing at all would happen tomorrow.


	7. Silent Protagonist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor decides just what kind of sex he enjoys. Kara plays fairy godmother, and a party is had. Gavin is a dipshit, and earns himself a lesson in cause and effect.
> 
> Hank is the luckiest guy alive.
> 
> The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't so much story driven as it's all hankcon fluff and sex and STUFF, with a bit of other chars thrown in. I do love them all. I hope you enjoy this one, and stay tuned for more...revelations and such next time, and boy do I mean it!
> 
> Happy dbh-versary, everyone! :DDD Mwah!

* * *

 

 

Connor and Sumo could both hear Hank’s car turning onto Michigan Drive - one of the few benefits of manual cars (at least the vintage one Hank was driving, older than himself by a few years), was you could hear the engine from a mile away. Or, Connor could, at any rate, and he’d never questioned whether other people could. Other people’s hearing was of little concern to him. But, point being, they both heard it, they looked in each other’s eyes and grinned. Sumo wagged his tail, but they were on the same page.

 

Sumo whuffed at him, and ran ahead into the kitchen hoping for a treat, while Connor told him  _ yes, yes,  _ in so many gestures. He got out the dinner plate from the fridge - a bagel full of tasty but relatively healthy toppings, bought and paid for all on his own, thank you (cooking was not something he was going to inflict upon his poor, unsuspecting lover when food was likely the last thing on his mind).

 

The tires screeched as Hank pulled up in front of his garage, loud enough to carry through to the kitchen.  _ No _ , thought Connor,  _ Hank’s not thinking about food _ .

 

However, Hank had no choice. He was going to eat his sandwich, have some tea, and be happy. Connor was not about to get overly friendly with Hank-on-low-blood-sugar, because that’s how you spelled disaster. Well fed Hank could be bristly enough. Hank after working a twelve hour day on nothing but coffee and instant noodles was like the love child of Cookie Monster and The Incredible Hulk. Cute, but lethal - not something you’d necessarily want to cuddle if you valued your life.

 

And so it was, like they say in fairy tales, that Connor had set the coffee table for Hank just as he came charging through the door, looking like the cat who got the cream.

 

‘That was fast,’ Connor noted, taking a seat on the couch, draping his arms over the back, chin atop his clasped hands. Hank hurriedly shrugged out of his coat, kicked off his shoes.

 

‘I hope that’s not indicative of the rest of the night.’

 

“Ha. Funny. I’m not the one who thinks our sexy fun times is a game of How to Make Hank Cum Faster Next Time.”

 

Connor tried not to smile like a crescent moon. Hank came around the couch, eyeing the table, obviously surprised. “...what’s this?”

 

‘Dinner. You haven’t had anything to eat since your last text, have you? Eat.’

 

The look on Hank’s face said Connor was right on the money. He sat down in his usual spot, and Connor didn’t even have to pat the seat. “I thought we were gonna get up to no good, not eat right before bed.”

 

Connor picked up his own mug of tea, sipped it delicately, let his silence do the talking. Trust Hank to read him loud and clear.

 

“...but if I don’t, I’ll get hangry, and no one likes me when I’m hangry.”

 

One hand splayed out to gesture at the coffee table, Connor nodded with decisive flair.  _ Ergo, food _ . Hank grinned, and proceeded to tuck into his late night dinner. The sight made Connor smile, but then again it always did. He liked watching Hank eat, simple as that, and the healthier the option, the more pleased he felt. Junk food had its place, but there was so much more to the world of nutrition than fat, carbs and over processed protein. But it wasn’t just about the food itself, it all came down to Hank’s enjoyment of it. The way things crunched between his pretty teeth (they were pretty, simple fact, which Connor didn’t think to question), how he’d either use his thumb to wipe crumbs or creamy smears from the corners of his mouth (and lick it clean), or simply swipe with his tongue. Connor liked the look of his tongue. Such an aesthetically unpleasant organ, and yet he couldn’t help but map out its mathematical characteristics every chance he got. It was ever so slightly pointed at the tip. That was his favorite aspect.

 

Silence filled the room. No crunching, no swipes of tongue over eye tooth or corner of mouth, no licking anything. Connor looked up from his shameless appreciation of Hank’s mouth to see the man in question point narrowing eyes at him.

 

“You know, Connor… Sometimes you get this birdlike, predatory look on your face. Scares the shit out of me. I can’t tell if you want to eat my face or peck me to death.”

 

Disturbing imagery though it was, and so vividly put, it gave Connor a surge of confidence. It probably shouldn’t thrill him to know he could scare the most important person in his life, but he had to presume Hank wasn’t being entirely serious. His plate was clean, his coffee cup almost empty, and just as Hank gave him a wink (no, he wasn’t being entirely serious) and reached for a paper napkin, Connor decided to insert himself further into the context.

 

He took Hank’s hand, lifted it to his mouth, breathed deep (toasty bread, sesame seeds pickles, cream cheese, arugula, lox, black pepper), and dragged the tip of his tongue up the center of Hank’s big hand...all the way up his middle finger...lips closing around the fingertip. He’d been wanting to do this for quite some time now, just because he wanted to. He didn’t need any more reason than that - although the way Hank’s throat closed over a tinny little whine was a definite bonus.

 

He licked his hand clean, one digit at a time, and suckled on his fingers all the way down to the last knuckle, until he made it to Hank’s thumb. Hank’s jaw was slack, his mouth slightly opened, eyes wide and incredibly blue for how deep he was blushing.

 

When it came to sex, Connor was very conflicted. By and large, he much preferred physical proximity to sexual activities (which wasn’t to say he didn’t enjoy sexual activities, he just...preferred other things). He enjoyed kissing more than he did ‘making out’. He liked holding hands A LOT, but couldn’t figure out why, apart from the fact it made him feel safe. Hank’s hands were always so warm, and they were big. He felt comforted whenever Hank took his hand. Safe. Sheltered.

 

On the other hand… He loved kissing Hank’s neck, feel his pulse speed up under his lips; loved running his hands down Hank’s chest, teasing his nipples, caressing his belly (solid, core muscles beneath a healthy layer of mostly subcutaneous fat). Hank felt self-conscious about it, but he always smiled when Connor decided to cuddle his midsection, indulgent of Connor’s ‘kinks’.

 

Being on the receiving end of Hank’s attentions made him feel ever so slightly uneasy, even if the end result was nice. But turning the tables on his lover? Connor  _ really _ liked that look in Hank’s eyes that said nothing was off limits, that Connor could do anything he wanted, and that’d be a-okay. He especially loved reducing Hank to a shivering mess - which was the foremost incentive he had for climbing onto Hank’s lap right then and there, straddling him on the couch, still suckling on his thumb.

 

“ _ Hmmm… _ ” he hummed around the base of said thumb, Hank’s eyes burning holes in his skin. They were dark with desire. Hank’s pulse was up, priorities shifting, he licked his lips.

 

“Holy shit… Connor. Oh, fuck  _ me _ …”

 

That was the plan, yes. But first, he was going to kiss Hank’s breath away, until he was squirming and begging with everything but actual words, begging for more. More of Connor, more of his kisses, more of his rocking hips over Hank’s  _ considerable _ dick, more of everything.

 

This? This, he could get used to...

 

***

 

In all honesty, Hank had not anticipated being forced to eat something before they got up to naughty goodness, but Connor did have a point. Aside from said point, he wanted to please Connor, and if that included letting the guy watch him eat, then that’s a small price to pay for that warm, fond look on his face. Insignificant, really.

 

On the other hand, he got one helluva return on his investment, so to speak - and oh, he did not think Connor was going to straddle his lap all of a sudden, like one of those stupid memes that circled round the web back in the day - save a horse, ride a cowboy? How about save a horse, ride a member of the mounted unit? No?

 

Not even word puns could distract him from the look in his lover’s eyes, or the way it seemed every beat of his heart sent fire pooling between his legs. Connor kissed him like it was his favorite pastime, like he wanted to taste that bagel, lick his mouth clean of it, and with every kiss, his hips rolled, pressed snug and flush to Hank’s lap. He was breathless and moaning in no time, and Connor just smiled at him.

 

They kissed all the way to the bed, kissed until they were both naked and unable to keep their hands away. Connor was quietly confident, self-assured, calm and eager at the same time. He didn’t ask about the extra large tube of lubricant in Hank’s bedside drawer, or the stash of condoms, just gave him a wink and patted the mattress, encouraging Hank to get comfy. He could see where this was going, and felt obligated to point out he hadn’t exactly been involved in any sexual acrobatics for a long time, just fyi. Connor kissed him again, and placed his hand right at the center of his chest, pushing at him to lie back. Another helpful hand pushed his legs up like he weighed nothing, one of the pillows magically finding its way beneath his lower back. Everything happened so fast. Before he knew it, Connor had pulled him hips first into a better position, and somehow Hank ended up with his hands hooked around the backs of his knees, everything standing up and hanging out, exposed and naked, and his heart beating like a stampede in his chest.

 

It didn’t seem fair that Connor was the confident one, that he looked at Hank without a single speck of hesitation, when Hank was arguably more experienced. Not that it bothered him. It was quite the other way around, incredibly erotic to let go of the reins for once, to know his lover knew what he was doing.

 

The first touch of Connor’s tongue swiping over his hole took his breath so fast he couldn’t even curse, and he didn’t let up. Wet, warm, insistent, turning Hank’s entire body into a powder keg without a fuse. Connor used his lips and tongue in ways that completely contradicted his lack of practical experience, until Hank didn’t know what to do with himself, until he could barely breathe, and his thighs were shaking.

 

Later, who knows how much later, Connor worked him open with confident fingers and so much lube Hank couldn’t feel a thing except for how perfectly those fingers fit inside him, to feel so full, so stretched, and gagging for it. Begging for Connor to fuck him, begging and pleading, blind with desire and pleasure, and then, right when he thought he couldn’t beg one more time without losing his mind, he got what he wanted.

 

Connor sunk his dick into him in one smooth stroke, moving his slicked up hand to Hank’s cock instead. And then he stayed put, letting out a deep, contented sigh, and Hank thought  _ yes, that’s it, do it, fuck me hard _ \- but instead of pulling out and pushing back in, Connor did something quite different.

 

He rolled his hips, flush and snug and  _ right there _ , barely pulling or pushing anything, just grinding into Hank with a seeming unstoppable sense of urgency. It was the most torturous, mind blowing, grinding, rubbing, insistent stimulation, not letting up, not giving Hank a single chance to breathe, just rocking into him, right into his prostate on every rolling thrust.

 

“ _ Oh-ngh-- _ oh, fuck--  _ awh _ !”

 

Before long he couldn’t speak, he didn’t have any words left in his head, just mindless noises, sweat rolling down the sides of his body, turning the sheets into a cold, damp mess. He gripped the headboard with both hands, just to grab hold of something, arching his back as far as he could, and his neck.

 

Connor moved with him, touched him, caressed him like there was no one else he wanted in this world, and little by little his hand found its way up his torso, stroking through the hair on his chest, coming to rest at the front of his throat. Covering his bobbing larynx.

 

“Hmmm…” Connor hummed, hunching his back, closer, closer, until their foreheads touched and Hank couldn’t look at him without going cross eyed.

 

“...oh...mngh... _ awh _ …”

 

“Ohhfugh-k...fuhkmeee,” Hank whimpered, everything on the verge of exploding, from head to toe, and if his toes curled any more he’d never be able to straighten them out again, but what other response could he have to Connor moaning so close to his face he could taste his breath?

 

“... _ ohhfughk...fuhkmeee… _ ”

 

And then it clicked. Connor wasn’t simply moaning. He was mimicking him. Trying his words on for size. His pitch. His tone. Everything.

 

“Shhhit! Unh!  _ UGH-fff-- _ !”

 

Everything seemed to collapse into itself. Everything was too much and not enough, everything ached, but in the single most perfect way, and Connor’s body rubbing all over him was the final straw that broke Hank’s proverbial back and had him breathless and whimpering and losing his composure. Everything released in a white hot flash of pleasure, but instead of ending right there, it went on. It spread, and grew, and crashed over him in waves - because Connor was nowhere near done.

 

Connor kissed him, moaning into his mouth, holding him close, hands in his hair, rubbing and grinding and moving as if he wanted to figure out how to establish a symbiotic link between them.

 

The last thing Hank remembered before blacking out was Connor’s mouth hanging open, jaw slack with pleasure, a deep, rumbling moan flowing from his perfect lips.

 

***

 

Life, as was its wont, ran its course. Their days were filled with work, and the nights they spent together were filled with an easy companionship. Connor gave Hank private lessons in ASL, pleased to see he was picking things up from his auditing class, and Hank helped him with his voice building exercises. They weren’t together all the time, but they tried to make time for each other as much as they could. Even if it was just a case of Connor dropping by the station with a bag of goodies, or Hank surprising him with spiced coffee at 3 AM, it worked for them. That was all that mattered.

 

Sometimes they attempted to watch a movie. Sometimes they had sex, sometimes they didn’t, but more often than not they ended up falling asleep curled up with each other. Not because sex wasn’t a fantabulous thing they shared, but sleep was in a league of its own. Neither one of them slept easy, as a rule, one of them suffering insomnia more than the other, and somehow it was easier to sleep next to one another, in one big cuddle pile with Sumo.

 

The closer they got to December 17, the more they talked about music, and dancing, the more they talked about Hank’s co-workers and what Connor could expect of them. He was still nervous about meeting everyone all at once, but Hank promised him it would be okay. They talked about dressing up, for once, and looked at pictures of outfits on Connor’s phone. It was all in good fun, and more often than not they ended up agreeing  _ not _ to wear anything at all like the pinned pics, but something more... _ them _ .

 

And then, as if through the wave of a magic wand, Friday the 17th had finally arrived - and Connor only knew one person he could trust with his outfit. Not Hank.

 

He wanted it to be a  _ surprise _ .

 

***

 

‘...you know, clothes like this would fit so much better if not for nipples,’ Connor told Kara, and promptly made a face. ‘It seems like such a design flaw.’

 

Kara smiled to herself, happy to assist her patient for this important (no,  _ pivotal _ ) event - going to a party with his new partner, get to potentially, hopefully interact with a number of new people - she felt as nervous as if she was going there, herself.

 

“What, nipples?” she said, giving his outfit a critical once over. Everything fit like a glove, but more importantly it wasn’t miles away from what he’d normally wear. It was still his own taste in clothing, just...amped up a few notches. Suitable to the occasion, presentable, but with an additional bit of flair.

 

‘Their placement on the human body. Although, the human body is a tangle of design flaws from start to finish. It’s a wonder we’ve survived for so long.’

 

“Mhmm. Turn around for me? Full circle.”

 

These past five weeks she had watched him go from a closed off, skeptical individual reluctant to move away from his comfort zone, to what she suspected was much closer to the real Connor. He was talkative, inquisitive, always critical (to a fault, many would say, but she didn’t mind), and he had very firm ideas on almost any topic they discussed. And that had been her main focus, once he started opening up, to just get him to communicate. It helped her get a sense of the person he was, when he wasn’t hiding away behind his phone or his laptop. Sometimes it seemed just talking about things, anything, the big concepts of life helped them both understand why certain situations made him feel agitated or unsure of himself. Especially with Hank tagging along for their last session, it had become painfully clear that Connor’s feeling like he couldn’t properly read people had nothing to do with a lack of understanding social cues or body language - it’s just that he never looked at people. He was too busy making himself disappear, or avoiding crowds and situations altogether. But Hank? He could read him like an open book.

 

He wasn’t as socially inept as he’d felt, when they first started his therapy. He just had to lift his eyes and take in a room. It was quite something to see him realize the only thing holding him back was his own fears.

 

And tonight he was going to a party. And he was fidgeting. “Out with it. What’s on your mind? Aside from the design flaws of the human torso.”

 

Connor’s mouth turned into an upside down u-shape. ‘I haven’t been to a formal party since high school. I hated it.’

 

Kara smoothed down the front of his outfit, feeling delighted and thrilled for him. When he didn’t explain further she looked up, searching his eyes for answers. She saw nothing but frustration. His face was heating up. “Why did you hate it?”

 

His mouth pressed itself into a straight line, as if he didn’t want to say.

 

“You can tell me. We won’t know if I have any helpful advice if I don’t know what the problem is.”

 

‘Everyone else got to wear whatever they wanted, because they didn’t care if anyone looked. Everyone was so pretty…’ He sighed, hands stilling for a moment. ‘I want to feel pretty. Hank suggested I should feel like a million bucks, but I don’t know how…’

 

Kara had an idea what he was talking about. “You’re not sure what would look good on you?”

 

‘I don’t want a makeover. I just...want to look like myself, but... _ more _ .’

 

Personal grooming and hygiene was one thing, but makeup had become something of a dying art the past decade or so. After a period of absolutely everyone using some form of cosmetics to enhance one’s looks, cosmetics companies across the globe had seen a decline in sales - Kara suspected it was just another trend of the beauty industry. Clothing had become more and more gender neutral since she was a kid, and though it was true certain hairstyles were still considered ‘feminine’ or ‘masculine’, hardly anyone so much as blinked at short-haired or long-haired people of any gender identity. Personal expression had become the norm, rather than confining oneself to a certain style based on tradition.

 

Be that as it may, this was one of the more festive seasons of the year, and there were bound to be party goers glamming it up left and right - Connor didn’t want to be the odd man out. He didn’t want to blend into the wallpaper anymore, he wanted to  _ fit in _ . The thought alone made Kara smile. Leaps and bounds...

 

“You’re taking a cab to the station, right?”

 

Connor nodded.

 

“ _ Good _ . That means we have plenty of time to have some fun.”

 

***

 

Despite Kara’s reassurances that he looked a million bucks, not to mention the fact he’d checked himself in the mirror no less than 314 times so far tonight (he  _ knew _ exactly how he looked) Connor still got out of the Detroit taxi cab feeling vaguely queasy. The snow crunched beneath his shoes as he got out of the cab and walked up to the imposing building, his ear cuffs made soft jingling sounds as he moved, but he told himself it would be okay. There’d be music inside, no one would notice if his  _ accessories jangled _ . No one would care, exclamation mark.

 

He took a deep breath, and punched in the pass code Hank had given him to get into the building. He gathered his coat closer to his chest, and looked his nails over with a critical, despairing eye. Holographic coral? What was he  _ thinking? _

 

He told himself it would be fine, that there was only one person in there whose opinion mattered, and  _ fuck _ the rest. Except he hardly ever cursed, apart from in the privacy of his own mind, and even then it was a rare occasion indeed. Still. Fuck’em. The only reason he wanted to feel pretty tonight was for his own sake, because, as Hank had put it, he’d feel more confident - and  _ oh _ , did he need confidence tonight. He needed confidence like some people needed air to breathe.

 

He stepped into the elevator at ground level, pushed the button for the top floor. Just a matter of seconds now, just a matter of moments, but he could hear the bassline reverberating down the elevator shaft. There was music, and it was loud enough to disguise his own percussions… In a manner of speaking.

 

The elevator doors dinged, and parted, and Connor followed the sounds of the music down the hallway to a larger conference room, fit for stately balls and then some. It was a winter wonderland come alive in the shape of decorations galore - the nigh obligatory Christmas tree in the far corner, complete with bright red ornaments, garlands everywhere in gold and silver and white. To the left, a spread of foods from all over the world, something for everyone. To the right, a table set up as a drinks bar, and smack dab in the middle of the room...people were dancing.

 

Connor couldn’t believe his eyes. People were actually dancing.  _ Together _ .

 

There was a murmur from farther into the room, and movement caught his eye. Someone positively squealed, and then it was as if the seas parted. Hank stood in their wake, eyes wide and staring, jaw slack.

 

For a moment he nearly bolted right out of there, his knee jerk response being  _ I don’t know if that’s a good stare or not _ \- but then he took a deep breath, and really looked at his partner. Hank wore a dark green dress shirt with yet another one of his  _ patterns _ , though this one was seasonally appropriate and...pretty. Silvery gray and dark red swirls overlay the green, and through some small miracle it didn’t look a mess, but rather suited both the man wearing it and the occasion. Connor didn’t know how he did it. Hank seemed capable of making any abomination known to the fashion industry work just fine.

 

And...the more they looked each other over, the warmer Hank’s cheeks got. Connor smiled. He felt on top of the world. He-- also felt terrified at the sight of so many people in one place, but mostly On Top of the World. Figuratively speaking.

 

***

 

It was safe to say Hank had been crawling out of his skin since he got up this morning, although whether he actually got any sleep beforehand was another thing entirely. It was probably more accurate to say he’d been crawling out of his skin through most of the night, worrying about the Christmas party, worrying about what he would wear, whether he should shave or do something with his hair, if he should dig up some goddamn accessories from years and years ago (wrist watches? Necklaces, wristbands, belts, ties?); worrying about Connor, if he would be okay with all the people there, wondering/worrying about what he would wear… They’d talked about it, a bit, here and there, and the closer they got to the 17th, the more excited Connor seemed. He said he wanted to look good, wear something really nice, and who could fault him? Dressing up was half the fun of going to parties. Or, at least, Hank always used to think so, back when he had a flat enough belly and everything fit like a glove. He wasn’t so sure anymore.

 

But here he was, dressed in black jeans, his usual shoes (although polished, thank you), and a fancy shirt he wasn’t entirely happy with. He felt underdressed and over the top at the same time - and like he needed a drink, badly. Like,  _ really _ badly. Too bad the PD wasn’t serving alcohol. Too bad everyone and their plus one seemed to have brought their own booze, and all Hank had to drink was sickly sweet, non-alcoholic glühwein. Thank you, bigwigs. Thanks.

 

“Stop fidgeting, Hank, for crying out loud-- the party’s just started. He’ll be here soon enough.”

 

“No, he’s  _ punctual _ . As in, he’s always early. If he’s  _ on time _ , he’s running late. This isn’t like him.”

 

“Maybe he just wants to make an entrance,” Jeffrey’s wife, Lydia, suggested enthusiastically, beaming up at Hank. Of all the people in his most immediate vicinity, the Fowlers were his closest friends, and Lydia was his biggest supporter. Or maybe she was just happy that he was edging his way back into their lives, after keeping to himself for most of the past few years.

 

“What’re you grinning at?” He asked her - but before she could tell him why, or choose not to tell, her eyes spied something, or rather,  _ someone _ , and squeaked like a squeaky toy.

 

Hank saw the look on her face first, and then Jeffrey’s, as they looked at each other - one asking without words, the other confirming it.  _ Yup, that’s him _ .

 

For one split second, Hank couldn’t move. But he had to turn in order to see, and he had to look. People stepped out of the way, turning to see what the fuss was all about, and there he was. That’s Connor. Dressed in wintery shades of white - a coat that nearly touched the floor, over crisp white jeans that were so slim fit they barely left anything for the imagination (but only just enough to be proper), and the hint of a white dress shirt with...lace? Not the old fashioned floral patterns you associated with your grandparents, but geometric, intricate shapes that made you think of modern architecture. All angles, and strict, almost austere beauty. Elegant. He was elegant. His hair in a severe side part, offsetting glistening curls that seemed completely natural (but  _ epic _ ), and his face…

 

He seemed to glow from within.

 

“Hi,” Hank said, feeling stupid the instant the word left his lips, but Connor’s answering grin was  _ beautiful _ , and the way he said ‘Hello’, like a salute but not (one of the ASL 101 words Hank had found the easiest to learn when looking stuff up in the middle of the night), and he was  _ happy _ , he was  _ here _ , and it was all it took for Hank to do something he hadn’t done in years, to anyone. He lifted Connor up off the floor in a hug and a twirl, swinging him around full circle, both of them grinning like a happy pair of crazies.

 

It didn’t matter if everyone was staring, because nothing existed but the two of them. Nothing else mattered right there and then. They could be crazy, together, and fuck the rest.

 

“You made it!”

 

Connor nodded, excitedly, hands and eyes moving down Hank’s chest, or his shirt, admiring the pattern. No words were needed for the obvious appreciation, but Connor nonetheless waggled his eyebrows.

 

“Yeees, I made an effort. Kinda. I knew you were gonna kill it, so what am I supposed to do, show up in anything but my finest?”

 

They put Connor’s coat away with the rest of everyone’s outerwear, and at least for a little while it felt like there was no one but the two of them in the entire world. They shared their own little bubble of time and space, and if Hank had any power over cosmic forces, he’d let them stay like that forever. Connor was beaming at him, doing a 360 for him - and his outfit was out of this world, all white, with blocks of fabric that had that  _ look _ to it that made you want to touch it, and the lace… That same, architectural lace hugged his shoulders, brushed his  _ hips _ (God, where was he hiding his underwear in those jeans?), circled the base of his long neck and stretched down the center of his chest and back… Simple, but effective. Stunning, evocative, skirting the fine line of so-called masculine and feminine attributes. Hank had never understood why it was so important that real men wear suits and pants and shirts,  _ real man clothes _ , and real women wear dresses and skirts...but also shirts and pants and suits… (just look at Marlene Dietrich, back in the day). He’d always felt it was such a shame ‘real’ men couldn’t wear dresses or skirts if they wanted to. As social constructs went, gender appropriate clothing had always seemed like the stupidest thing, ever since he was a kid just coming to terms with what was okay and what wasn’t.

 

And yet, here he was, in his shirts and pants and suit-ish outfits…

 

Connor’s nod to other-ness was simply...captivating. A nod to Bowie, to Swinton, to generations of icons, trailblazers who transcended the boundaries of being male or female, of being either, neither, more than the sum of one’s parts, of being  _ human _ .

 

“Level with me,” Hank said, teasing, on the way back to the Fowlers. “Is that whole outfit body paint, or just a case of  _ really _ epic thread count?”

 

Connor scrunched his nose, and promptly elbowed him in the arm.

 

“You look amazing. Otherworldly... Let’s go say hi to the others? Lydia can’t wait to meet you.”

 

There was a sudden tightening of the skin around Connor’s eyes, a tension Hank had learned to recognize. Subtle, but speaking volumes.

 

“It’ll be fine. Just be yourself. Be  _ you _ .”

 

***

 

“Can you imagine. Fucking.  _ That _ ?” asked Gavin of the room at large, or the nearest vicinity of the makeshift bar, putting a metric ton of additional emphasis to every single word just because he could. “Oh. My.  _ God _ .”

 

Tina Chen sipped from her plastic cup of festive cheer (ie, her own secret brew: red wine so positively festooned with orange slices and a variation of festive spices that gave sangría a run for its money), listening to Gavin whining into his beer, and did the polite equivalent to rolling her eyes at the ceiling - she closed her eyes and took a shallow breath. “I can imagine fucking anything, Gavin. That’s why it’s called  _ imagination _ .”

 

“Ugh, phuk’s sake, Tina. Look at that thing. What’s he tryin’ to look like? Lady Gaga?”

 

Chen looked in the direction of Gavin’s current beef with the world, sipped her spiced wine for the dramatic effect more than anything. “I think Thierry Mugler is the reference you’re looking for, Gav. And you shouldn’t reference iconic celebs just because you remember their name.”

 

“ _ You shouldn’t reference famous people, Gav _ ,” Reed mimicked her. Poorly.

 

“Now, what I want to know is what’s bothering you more in this scenario - your daddy kink and the fact Anderson wouldn’t poke you with  _ any _ stick, let alone his own pole,  _ or _ , that the plus one is prettier than you, and now your mini-me’s confused.”

 

The vein above Reed’s left eyebrow twitched loud enough she could hear it. She smiled into her hot drink, enjoying it more for every small sip. Or perhaps it was the Reed baiting.

 

Yes. That was probably it.

 

***

 

Fuming. If any word were to describe Gavin’s squinting glare as it circled back to the lieutenant and his new fleshlight, that was the one. Fuming.

 

Chen’s sarcastic remarks bounced around in his head like it was an echo chamber. Daddy kink? Prettier than him?  _ Prettier?! _ He was  _ ruggedly handsome _ . He’d been around the block, he’d  _ seen _ shit, and he had the scars to prove it. ‘Pretty’ was for limp wristed old queens who waxed poetic about their scene kid twink days, good  _ god _ . And! As far as Hank was concerned, he could go smash a urinal for all he cared. Washed up, alcoholic, entitled old shit.  _ Daddy kink _ ... Ri _ dick _ ulous.

 

Something that  _ did _ bother him, rattle his cage, rub him the wrong way, was how everyone welcomed the freakshow into the fold like he was a long lost friend. What’d he done to deserve it? Embarrassed the whole team in front of the Captain, made it look like they were incompetent ninnies. He’d talked to the murdering piece of shit and got ~results~. Whoop-de-fuckin’-do. No training, no nothing, no experience, all book smarts and a bajillion degrees and diplomas, like some walking encyclopedia - no priors, at least. He’d checked. He’d double checked, just to know what the fuck he was dealing with. Nosy, know-it-all civilian, squeaky clean, goody two shoes, getting on like a house on fire with the Captain and his family.

 

You go through years of training at the Academy, you pass your exams, you work your ass off, and what do you get? A lousy paycheck, lousy benefits, and not so much as a nod of appreciation from the higher ups. Instead they cockblock your career trajectory, citing ‘antisocial behavior’, ‘problems with authority’ and ‘lacking foresight with regards to the consequences of one’s actions’, when everyone knew exactly why he couldn’t take the lieutenant’s exam. Lieutenant Hank Anderson couldn’t take the competition. Central Station wasn’t big enough for both of them.

 

“Heyyy, Gavin!”

 

Collins was one big, butterball of Christmas cheer. Exactly the opposite of what Reed wanted to deal with right then and there, but trust the old fart to go on.

 

“Didja hear? Cap’n Fowler’s talking about Hank’s partner! As in, bringing him in on stuff, like a consulting whatsit. Depending on the case an’ stuff. Isn’t that great!”

 

Private consultant? After one fluke? “What are you talking about, Collins?”

 

“No! I’m serious! That guy’s like a walking tech lab! He looked me over once,  _ once  _ I’m telling you, and he said he was sorry about my cat being sick! I never told him about Buddy! How’s he even know I have a cat? How does he know?!”

 

_ Excuse me while I throw up in my mouth, _ thought Gavin in the private recesses of his mind. “Yeah, the prick’s amazing.”

 

Collins blinked at him. “What?”

 

Gavin shot him a mock grin to rival all mock grins that came before it. “I said that shit’s  _ amazing. _ Have another beer, whydontcha.”

 

The little shit. Thinking he’s the universe’s gift to humanity? Having a good time, schmoozing with the Captain’s family. Playing nice with Fowler’s wife, the Millers’ baby (ugh,  _ babies _ ), the ass kissing freak, and no one said anything about it. Everyone just smiled and laughed at his seizures (sorry. ‘ _ Signing’ _ ), at his weird faces and nods and shit, like he was some sort of miracle. Freak show, more like it.

 

That shit had to stop. It was about time someone knocked the prick off his perch. A peg or two. Off that high horse, show him he couldn’t just waltz right in here like he  _ belonged.  _ Think he was better than everyone else?

 

Guy couldn’t handle being the center of attention? He had some sort of anxieties or whatever, ‘struggled’ speaking to strangers, couldn’t handle crowds?

 

Maybe he just shouldn’t get it into his perfect little head to go to a party full of strangers, then.

 

He had to  _ earn _ his privileges, just like anyone else here, and Gavin knew exactly what he’d do to get the point across.

 

***

 

A little while later, Hank and his positively remarkable, out of this world Plus One found their way to the buffet table, away from the madding crowd. Hank picked a selection of classic Americana mixed with North African goodies - turkey/gravy/fries to one side, falafel and pickles to the other, and it was all good. Connor looked on with a giddy smile, happy to simply soak up the atmosphere for the moment.

 

Just then a heavy bassline started blaring out over the speaker system, one in a long line of throwback hits suited to the older generation. Connor recognized it, but that was about it - he’d been twelve when he first heard it, as far as he could remember. Hank, though, had a completely different reaction.

 

“Oh, here we go,” he said, just as Ben Collins came rushing past him towards what constituted as the dance floor.

 

Connor arched his eyebrows in silent query; Hank looked at his old-time cop buddy, who went into the same goddamn dance routine he’d been showing off every chance he got since 2016.

 

“Dunno if you’ve ever dabbled with song-and-dance games. Collins a big fan of ‘em.”

 

Connor grinned, watching Ben strut his stuff to the old groove of  _ Teacher _ , by one of a myriad heart throbs vying for supremacy in the mid 10’s.

 

‘It looks like fun,’ Connor pointed out.

 

“Uhuh. Wait until someone breaks out  _ Uptown Funk _ , and you won’t be saying that again.”

 

Sidling closer, Connor tilted his head to glance at him. ‘If I didn’t know you, I’d suspect you were jealous.’

 

“Eh,” grumbled Hank. “He can shake it like nobody’s business, but I’ve seen the same routines for ten years now. More. Make that fifteen. And I  _ still _ don’t know how he does it.”

 

Connor shot him an impish grin, eyes positively twinkling. He winked, and jogged on over to one of Hank’s oldest colleagues, right there on the dance floor.

 

“What are you...? Connor?” Aaaand no, he was going, going,  _ gone _ , and Hank was left by the smorgasbord of goodies, watching as Connor...danced in perfect synchronicity with Ben, who had killed it with that same dance routine for years now.

 

_ And I’m like - oh my, oh my, oh my Gooood~ _

 

It was like a dream - one of those vaguely unsettling ones, but you couldn’t for the life of you point out just what was so terrifying, lurking in the background. Connor and Ben moved in perfect sync with each other, grinning at each other (Ben was  _ thrilled _ to have found a fellow Dance Dance aficionado) - and for every new bit of the routine, Connor seemed to simply take a good look at the guy with the mustache. Just one single calculating look, and then  _ boom _ , off they went into the next segment, side stepping and arms waving and stuff Hank couldn’t even  _ describe _ , much less process.

 

_ ‘Looks fun,’ _ Connor had said. Not ‘Oh, I love those games!’ or ‘I used to play them all the time growing up!’ Just… ‘looks fun’.

 

And there he was, killing it. He was a natural - and it was the first time Hank had seen him completely forget about being shy among strangers. He was just...enjoying himself.

 

It was  _ brilliant _ . And...ever so slightly awe inspiring. Hank was beginning to suspect (or had been suspecting for a while now) that he was dating some kind of savant. A genius. A brilliant, affectionate, charming, dorky, opinionated jackass - and a natural at almost anything he set his eye on. Languages? Nemas problemas! Mathematics? Piece of pi! ...kicking ass and taking names on the dance floor? Hank grinned. He was a killer queen, gunpowder gelatine, dynamite with a laser beam - guaranteed to blow your mind…

 

...and absolutely beautiful.

 

***

 

Dancing with Ben Collins was one of the best times Connor had ever had. Not since he was a child could he recall any instance where he felt so liberated. For as long as the song lasted, he didn’t care if people were watching, it didn’t even cross his mind that they might be staring. There was a simple joy in moving to the rhythm of the melody, to feel the bassline course through his limbs. Ben was grinning ear to ear, too stoked for words to have a dance partner by his side, following his lead (or anticipating them, but Ben didn’t need to know that Connor could predict the next segment of the routine before it happened).

 

By the time the song came to a close, and the pair of them ended in the same finishing pose, they were both grinning like school kids at the fairground, high on cotton candy and corndogs.

 

“ _ That was amazing! _ ” Ben wheezed, not entirely whipped into shape anytime in the past ten years. He was out of breath, but obviously loving it. “ _ Oh my goodness! _ ”

 

‘Breathe,’ Connor told him, feeling empowered somehow. What a fascinating biological function, endorphin release. ‘Would you like something to drink?’

 

“I’d kill for a beer. Or, no, you know what? Maybe some of that spiced stuff Chen made. She makes the  _ best _ stuff. If you ever invite someone to a potluck, you want her on your list, I’m telling you.”

 

Connor smiled. ‘I believe you. I’ll be right back.’

 

Unaware that one set of dark eyes wasn’t merely watching him, but biding their time, Connor made his way to the drinks table, waving at Hank as he went.

 

***

 

Cutesie-fucking- _ twee _ , that’s what it was. Poor thing, he  _ struggles _ with  _ strangers _ , he can’t talk, he gets so  _ scared _ . Bull. Shit.

 

You don’t put yourself in the middle of the dance floor with a tipsy middle aged clown if you’re so scared of attention you freeze up like a deer in headlights. You don’t walk away strutting your shit like you just won a prize.

 

Nonsense. Bull. Shit.

 

However, Gavin knew the moment he saw what Connor was bringing back from the pretend bar. Time to see just how much attention the sissy could take before he cracked. This was his chance, and he was not going to miss it.

 

***

 

“You have to forgive me, Hank,” said Lydia, showing Hank her phone album, pics and vids and all. “I had to take snapshots, you know that, but… Him and Collins, dancing? How epic was that?!”

 

“Epic.” Hank grinned, happily munching on one of his falafel nuggets, watching Connor move towards the other side of the room. He waved, and Hank returned the gesture with an eyebrow arch and a bit of happy fork waving. It was entirely possible he couldn’t feel any more proud than he already did. This was going so well, Connor was having such a good time, and everyone was being respectful of his boundaries. The food was better than it usually was, and the music wasn’t  _ too bad _ , and...say what you want about ego tripping, but there was something incredible about having your lover show off a bit for your friends. Hank already knew he was spectacular, and now his co-workers and friends got to see a glimmer of it, too.

 

Him and Lydia continued to chat, with Chen piping in that she wanted to know where Connor got that outfit, and please, could Hank introduce them so she could ask?

 

All was well, until the strangest sound carried through the room. A crackling, crunching noise, brittle and sharp, snappy. Wet. Collins was cursing, and...Gavin? Close to shouting apologies?

 

“OH! OH GOD! I AM SO SORRY! AW, GEE, LOOKIT YOU.”

 

Hank frowned, looking up to see Connor and Ben covered in Chen’s secret Christmas Sangría recipe. Ben was shaking the stuff from his hands, still cursing.

 

“Gavin, for fuck’s sake, watch where you’re going!”

 

Connor just stood there, hands in front of him, looking like that girl from that Stephen King novel. Maybe it was just red wine, instead of pig’s blood, but the horror in his eyes was perfectly tangible. The music died down, and Hank wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, because without the music Gavin’s voice carried across the entire room, and the last thing Connor needed was more attention.

 

Then things happened very, very fast. The way dreams sometimes move in different ways at the same time - slow motion and too fast for the human eye to catch sight of things.

 

One second, the look in Connor’s eyes changed, and Hank knew exactly where he’d seen it before - at the bus stop, right before Connor threw himself at the ring leader who dared try to steal his things. Before anyone knew what happened, they were both on the floor, and he had Reed in an arm lock. Gavin was face down to the floor, in the pool of spilled red wine, with Connor straddling his back, one hand to the base of his shoulder joint, the other hand extending his arm as far as it went.

 

People gasped in shock. Gavin cursed like a pirate, yapping over his shoulder like a terrier, throwing one derogatory slur after another at him. Connor took it one step further, nothing short of murder in his eyes. Gavin started screaming.

 

“Shhhiiit!” Hank dropped his plate of food at the table and rushed over. “Connor!  _ Connor! _ Holy  _ shit _ ! CONNOR!”

 

“He’s gonna pop his shoulder!”

 

***

 

‘Apologize!’

 

‘Say you’re sorry!’

 

‘You did it on purpose!’

 

‘Why did you  _ do that _ ?! What has he ever done to you?!’

 

Chloe never voiced her opinion outside of his studio apartment. Never. Not once did she speak without being prompted - but this time was different. Connor listened to Reed’s shrieks of agony, and didn’t care one bit. Let him suffer, let him feel the pain, let him regret his actions, let him understand that actions have consequences, and you can’t treat people like they’re nothing, like they’re nothing more than a joke waiting to be told.

 

He’d spent hours thinking about what he would wear to this party. Ever since Hank asked him, he’d gone over hundreds of different ideas, a thousand combinations of suitable outfits, anything and everything he’d ever wondered what it would feel like to wear. Skirts and dresses on one end of the spectrum, as he’d never quite understood what was so inherently feminine or masculine about a piece of fabric, and sharp suits on the other end - but he wore some variation of a suit every day of the week. He’d wanted to look different, to wear something he never normally would. He wanted to be pretty, and he’d wanted to suit the theme of the party. Winter. Holiday season. Christmas. Silvers and golds and coppers and brass and every imaginable shade in between.

 

It was just clothes. It was just color schemes. He wasn’t hurting anyone by wearing lace panels or ear cuffs that looked like delicate, frosted garlands. And now he was covered in red wine, his outfit marred and stained and ruined if he didn’t rinse it out before it dried. Ridiculed. For no reason whatsoever.

 

‘APOLOGIZE!’ Chloe boomed from his back pocket; Connor pulled Gavin’s arm further upwards, extending the already painful angle. He could easily dislocate his elbow joint. Easy. He could see the tendons overextending, he could see the muscles working to protect the joint, but all it would take was a bit more pressure.

 

“ _ I’m sorry! I’M SORRY! I DIDN’T MEAN T--!! _ ”

 

Connor nearly snarled, adding pressure to Gavin’s wrist, resulting in another scream.

 

“CONNOR!”

 

‘LIAR!’ cried Chloe, his mobile phone vibrating with her fury. ‘LIAR!!’

 

Hank…

 

He turned his head to look: Hank looked horrified. Stricken and pale, uncomprehending. It wasn’t the done thing, to subdue your beloved’s co-worker and current partner at a party where you were a guest...even if he was a lying piece of shit.

 

He let go of Gavin’s arm and rolled onto his feet into an upright position, wine splattered all over him. He felt naked, despite being fully dressed, and he stepped away from Reed, who pushed to his feet, suddenly furious.

 

“You little shit!! Motherfuckin’, cocksuckin’ scuzz bucket! Who do you think you are? Huh?! What the fuck gives you the right to be here?!”

 

***

 

It was like déjà vu all over again, but this time it wasn’t Connor lunging at a target, but Reed. The guy was like a goddamn bulldog. He just wouldn’t back down for nothing, but just when Hank thought he was going to have to place himself between Gavin and his partner, something extraordinary happened.

 

Connor leveled the detective with such a cold, hard stare that it stopped him dead in his tracks. He just stood there, arms at his sides, head held high, staring Gavin right in the eye and not giving a single inch. Reed didn’t know what hit him. He didn’t know how to handle it, didn’t know where to look, even though he tried to meet that stare head on.

 

Not even one minute later, he scurried off, cursing up a storm and leaving the others in the middle of the dance floor, unsure where to go from there.

 

Connor’s chest heaved with deep, fast breaths. Collins looked just as shaken, if not more so.

 

“What the Hell happened here?” Fowler asked, and when Connor let his eyes drop to the floor, Ben was the one who spoke up.

 

“Dunno where the heck he came from, Captain. He bumped into me from behind, and Connor’d just brought us drinks. I have no idea what he was playing at, but... “ He huffed, hands gesturing at his own front. “My one good dress shirt’s ruined, Connor’s outfit’s a mess… Reed said he was sorry, but if you ask me, this was his idea of a good time.”

 

Fowler didn’t shake his head, but Hank saw the way his jawline tightened. He was not happy. “I’ll have a word with him first thing tomorrow. Now, SOMEBODY put the music back on!" he barked, "And why don’t I see about some paper towels. Clean up this mess before someone slips and literally breaks a leg.”

 

***

 

In an ideal world, where everything was fair and just, Reed would’ve been the one bent to the task of mopping up the spilled wine off the floor. Instead, Fowler, Hank, and Connor each did their bit. Hank got towels from the nearby break room, Fowler got a trash can, and Lydia tried reassuring Connor he just had to rinse his clothes out nice and thorough before washing, and they’d be fine.

 

Together, they wiped away the evidence off the floor, until there was nothing left.

 

“Again, I’m sorry,” said Jeffrey, looking from Connor to Hank and back again. “This kind of behavior is completely unacceptable, and in no way reflects my unit’s opinion of you.”

 

“Yeah, he’s a moron!” Ben chimed in, coming over with a tray of coffee cups for everyone. Lydia smiled and pressed his arm in silent gratitude.

 

Connor shook his head, declining the coffee with a hesitant smile. ‘Is there a restroom nearby where we could freshen up?’

 

Hank blinked. Connor’s hands were at his sides. They hadn’t moved once since the incident with Reed. Was that...Chloe? Asking, on Connor’s behalf? She was an AI, of course. It was just that he’d never heard her make decisions on her own outside of Connor’s place. Out here, she tended to just… act as Connor’s mouthpiece.

 

Perhaps she thought she’d better step up to the plate, given what happened tonight.

 

Hank went with him and Collins to the nearest restroom, listening with half an ear as his colleague bemoaned the state of his one good tie, and his one good dress shirt. Connor hadn’t said a single thing since he stepped away from detective Reed. The shithead.

 

He hovered in the background as the other two went about splashing their faces with water, as Connor quite unceremoniously pulled his skin tight top off, not a care in the world, and proceeded to rinse it out in the sink.

 

“You shouldn’t clean it, you know,” said Ben, his voice hushed and tinged with bitterness. “Reed’s been swanning about the precinct, thinking he’s the golden boy since day one. If you ask me, he’s a gold encrusted turd. You should give him that thing, tell him to take it to the dry cleaners, whatever. Make him pay for it. That’s what I’m gonna do, you just watch me. I ain’t cleaning this! I’m letting it soak in!”

 

“Collins…”

 

“No! I’m sick and tired of him getting away with being a prick just ‘cause he gets results! All he gets is a slap on the wrist,  _ if that _ , but you’ve got a disciplinary file longer than route 66!”

 

Hank sighed. Collins had a point, but Hank for one was in no mood to be petty. For once in his life, all he wanted to do was put this catastrophic end to a perfect evening behind him, and make sure Connor was okay.

 

“Connor?”

 

Their eyes met in the mirror, and Hank didn’t know which surprised him most - how utterly calm Connor looked, or how traumatized  _ he _ looked. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said, not knowing if he should lift his shoulders in a shrug or shake his head or  _ what _ , and instead ended up doing everything at once. It was a jumble of body language, but fortunately for him, Connor was perfectly fluent where that lingo was concerned.

 

He smiled, and patted himself dry enough with a bunch of paper towels, before simply turning on his heel and coming on over. He slipped his arms under Hank’s, wrapping behind his back in a firm hug. Hank hugged his shoulders, breathing deep of the smell of his bare skin. Despite his own embarrassment, the ever lurking tendency for guilt, Hank couldn’t help but feel a twang of pride to think his Plus One was the single most kickass of them all.

 

It wasn’t a disaster, nor was it the end of the world. They would be okay.  
  



	8. Make a Deal with God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank feels bad about the incident at the party, despite the fact it wasn't the end of the world. Connor tells him a secret or two, one of which will come into question later on in the story.
> 
> Gavin reluctantly admits the hopped up 'consultant' got some kickass moves.
> 
> Connor makes a questionable, possibly bad decision, going off his meds (note that I don't wish to in any way imply this is *ever* the way to go IRL), but it's not as if he's telling anyone, so why should anyone care?
> 
> Amanda makes another phone call, and isn't happy at all with the voice on the other end of the ether.
> 
> Last but not least, Hank's beginning to view Chloe as a person, instead of just an artificial intelligence.

* * *

 

 

While a lot of people would probably have let two plastic mugs of red wine down the front of their pristine white outfit stand between them and a good night, Connor was not most people. He rinsed it out as best he could in the restroom sink, then donned a Detroit PD t-shirt, gracefully provided by none other than Ben Collins (which of course meant it was about three sizes too big, but what did that matter in the long run?). He brought it back from the locker room, saying he was getting one for himself anyway, and they were clean, so why not? Why not, indeed. Connor accepted it with a thankful grin, and slipped it on in one smooth move.

 

As it turned out, there was something cleverly disarming about the pair of them in matching t-shirts: almost everyone went from looking oh so very concerned to smiling at the sight of them. It was a gag they played to their advantage, perhaps Ben most of all - but it was Connor who convinced him to have another go at the dance floor first chance they got. Ben didn’t have to wait long, but thankfully (in Hank’s humble opinion) they joined forces  _ not _ to the unmistakable beats of  _ Uptown Funk _ , but something more...boundaries-crushing.

 

_ Rabiosa _ . Trumpets and beats galore, and it was a close call as to which of the two won the title of hipshakers and movers. It wasn’t a matter of who had more junk in their trunk (that wasn’t even a question), but how they used it - and  _ oh _ , they did not pull any stops at all, to the (at times perplexed) delight of everyone there. Reed remained out of sight for the rest of the evening, no doubt licking his wounds somewhere.

 

There were certainly worse things in the world than stained fancy dress, despite what detergent commercials wanted you to believe, and the rest of the night was divided between more dancing (he even convinced Hank to join him for a soft shoe shuffle, just swaying back and forth to one of the slower songs), meeting new people, and quickly realizing everything was a lot easier than he’d thought it would be. Connor came away from it feeling like those million bucks Hank had been telling him about - his unblemished white coat over the DPD tee, his damp dress shirt/blouse folded neatly over his arm.

 

Hank had been more or less quiet after the incident with Reed, quiet and hovering, and looking about as cheerful as a lonely St Bernard. He followed him to his taxi cab, which was waiting and ready outside the station by the time they made their way down. He was like a faithful guard dog, thought Connor, and on a whim he lifted his hand to press a soft kiss to his palm. It made Hank smile.

 

They said their goodnights and see-you-soons and call-me-laters, and they kissed until neither one of them could feel the chill of the night.

 

‘You sure you don’t want to come over? Or, we could go to your place?’ Connor asked, then pressing his palm to the taxi cab panel by the door, which opened soundlessly.

 

Hank looked reluctant at the prospect, but stepped into the cab all the same with a mumbling smile, saying Sumo would be thrilled to have him over. And speaking of family - as it turned out, Chloe had become a bit of a fixture in life as Hank had come to know it, and once they were back at Hank’s humble Michigan Drive abode, Hank gave the go ahead for Connor to install her on Hank’s fancy 8k tv. She made life easier when they were together, and this way she could keep an eye on Sumo during the day. Tonight, however, she was still upset about what had happened with Reed. She was positively seething, and she  _ never _  used to raise her voice at anyone. Hank reassured her it was fine, that Gavin Reed was the kind of person who didn’t respond to courtesies or pleasantries. That’s all. Hopefully, he wouldn’t get any more ideas after Connor slammed him into the ground.

 

“Oh,  _ Hank _ ,” she sighed, pacing back and forth across the monitor, further back in her virtual room. “Oh, dear…”

 

Connor shrugged, and made tea. He didn’t know what to tell her. Reed had tried to humiliate him in front of everyone, but it hadn’t worked, and it was over and done with. But Hank, the overgrown teddy bear, was sitting in his spot on the couch, simultaneously trying to talk to her (him, the AI skeptical, borderline-technophobe millenial to give them all a run for their money) and deal with an overexcited 250lb puppy. The coffee table went screeching out of place over the rug, Hank’s lap full of affectionate Sumo who just wanted a hug. Or ten.

 

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing he said, one hand reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. “He’s a jackass, but he’s my jackass of a partner, and we’re stuck with each other until Fowler decides differently. So...we’re gonna have to deal with it. Knowing Fowler, he’ll sit me and Collins down with him first thing tomorrow. Whoopee…”

 

Connor brought over a pair of big mugs full of steaming hot tea. Words weren’t necessary at this point, just silent support. He smiled at Chloe, who seemed to be calming down a bit.

 

“But you shouldn’t have been targeted like that. It’s...possibly the shittiest thing I’ve seen him do. He won’t get away with it. Collins for one won’t let him.”

 

***

 

They ended up staying on the couch, with music playing from Hank’s old record player (his Dad’s, really, but he’d kept it even after all this time). Hank was resting his head on Connor’s lap. They were watching a playthrough of a horror game set in an asylum, where an unsuspecting investigator had himself checked in under false pretenses. The soft music playing in the background helped Chloe enjoy the game from the far right corner, rather than curl into a ball, covering her eyes.

 

“You really had a good time tonight...didn’t you?”

 

Connor nodded, and he could positively feel himself beaming like a spotlight. He ran his hand over Hank’s silvery waves, fingertips brushing his brow. He felt excited still, giddy, like he was unlikely to get a single wink of sleep tonight, even if it was tempered by a niggling worry. It was the best party he’d ever been to, which he told Hank with a few brief signs. He was improving in comprehension, something which Connor couldn’t express just how proud it made him feel. His signing was another matter - but not a crucial one, because Connor knew how the language centers of the brain worked. As a beginner, you would always have your strengths, be it in listening comprehension, reading, writing or speaking, and it was never a matter of failing anything. You just had to keep rewiring your own neural pathways until you improved enough to communicate successfully. Some people never quite lost their accent, others yet never quite wrapped their head around the spelling of certain words, and so on. It was inconsequential, because Hank was learning, and more than eager to.

 

“Yeah? Best party ever?” Chloe shushed him from the tv set; he and Connor traded grins, but Hank didn’t look away even when the moment had passed. Instead he got a thoughtful look in his eyes. Pushed into an upright position, still looking. Then his jawline set: he had made up his mind. He lifted his hands, and signed one important question. ‘Talk?’

 

Connor couldn’t help but grin at hearing the sound of Chloe’s voice to Hank’s signing. It seemed so strange, however logical. He got out his phone, turned off the translation feature. If Hank wanted to talk without interrupting Chloe’s enjoyment of the playthrough, who was he to object.

 

“About?”

 

Hank shrugged, glancing at their mutual AI friend. “I feel bad,” he said, working his way slowly through the signs. Connor wasn’t in a hurry. “Tonight.”

 

“Still? But… Your fault, not,” Connor signed, simplifying the sentence structure without dumbing things down. “Reed = bully. Deserves your guilt - NOT.”

 

Hank sighed, but shook his head with a smile of agreement. Connor suggested he drop by the station the next day, apologize for bruising Reed’s  _ massive _ ego, but Hank begged him not to. He couldn’t stop giggling at the mental image of Reed’s massive  _ ego _ , but all the same. They agreed to meet for lunch, or a very late lunch, or dinner, depending on how Hank’s day went. Connor had his set schedule, which only rarely ever deviated from routine.

 

Later, long after the streaming, they lay awake in bed, sharing secrets with each other. Hank’s phobia of birds was a sore point for him for no other reason than it being awkward as Hell. Connor tried suggesting budgies were cute, but Hank insisted they were emissaries of Evil.

 

Connor admitted, after a long while of insignificant secrets - the likes of really disliking certain foodstuffs but never being bold enough to admit it if someone treated you to something. Insignificant, trivial little things - that he was scared of heights to the point of never having opened the door onto his minuscule balcony.

 

“You have a balcony?” Hank whispered in the relative darkness of the room. The reading lamp was on, and the hallway light. Connor had turned the translation feature back on, to ease late night confessions. He nodded.

 

“...did something happen to make you scared, or is it like me with the birds? Nothing happened to me, I just  _ know _ they’re instruments of death.”

 

At least Hank could make jokes at his own expense, or the expense of his fears. Connor struggled with that concept, at least right this instance.

 

‘My brother. He fell off the side of a building. I couldn’t catch him in time.’ He stopped to note how calm he felt. It was like he was stating any other fact, like - the color of the universe isn’t black, but beige.

 

“Oh,” said Hank. Also calm, but tinged with something a lot like compassion. Of course, Hank would know all about trauma, and death, but this was the first he’d heard of the cause of his brother’s passing. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said, and stroked his cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

 

He curled up closer into Hank’s embrace, Hank spooned behind him, gathering his arms closer, tighter. ‘It’s okay. He isn’t in pain. He isn’t suffering. From what I understand he died the moment he hit the ground.’

 

Nothing more came from Hank for a little while - Connor deduced that he was likely wondering if he should point out that’s not what he meant, and why did Connor have to be so factual about everything all the damn time. But that’s not what he ended up asking, his voice warm over Connor’s ear.

 

“What’s his name? Your brother? If you don’t mind me asking…”

 

It was Connor’s turn to shrug, or perhaps squirm. He lifted his hands to spell the name out, but faltered. Was it M--... No. C--? No, it was… Con--...?

 

“Connor?”

 

He shook his head, drawing a blank. It was most disconcerting. ‘I don’t remember.’

 

Hank frowned behind him. He could see it in the blinking of his own eyes, like tiny snapshots of the world around him. “You don’t want to tell me, that’s fine, but come on…”

 

‘No, I-- I mean it. I don’t… I don’t remember his name... ‘

 

He rolled over in Hank’s arms, searching his pale blue eyes for answers, but found none.

 

‘Why can’t I remember his name?’

 

***

 

Just as Hank had suspected, the first thing Fowler did Saturday morning was haul all their asses into his office to straighten shit out between them - Collins, Reed and Anderson, and their union rep. And no, they were  _ not _ on first name basis for the duration of the meeting. While Anderson hadn’t taken part in the altercation, (for once, Reed pointed out, to the delight of absolutely no one), he was indirectly involved. It had been plain to see for anyone who witnessed the event that he had targeted Anderson’s date, and Collins had ended up caught in the middle of whatever the Hell was going on.

 

For once in his life, Reed didn’t deny Collins’ version of events. He actually admitted he didn’t see why some hopped up behavioral expert, an outsider with ‘issues’ could suddenly get fast tracked into a consulting gig with the DPD. He said he’d voiced his concerns about having a civilian talk to a murderer (‘alleged’, my ass, he said at one point), but neither Collins or Anderson had listened to him. The guy had a lucky break, and suddenly he’s the best thing since crispy bacon? What gives, in so many words. What he actually said was what the fick, causing the entire room to groan.

 

“It was just a stupid prank that went too far,” said Reed, and that much they could all agree on. Or parts of it.

 

“I buy ‘stupid’ and ‘went too far’,” was Anderson’s take on it. He didn’t actually see the whole thing go down, but he also knew Connor wouldn’t lay a finger on anyone unless he was threatened or cornered - and that was the point he made, and went back to anytime Reed pulled the ‘exaggerated use of force’ card.

 

“You’re just pissed off ‘the hopped up civilian’ got one over on your sorry ass. Kung Fu style-y,” said Collins, still bitter about his one good dress shirt. And his one good tie!

 

Sometimes, Fowler absolutely hated his job.

 

***

 

“Chen, what the Hell!” Gavin hissed over his cup of coffee, Tina Chen walking in with the same idea of a mini break. Nothing like a cuppa hot black stuff when you checked into the station.

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t go telling Fowler I’m a goddamn bully with ‘no foresight whatsoever’. God!”

 

“You want me to lie to the captain? Never in my life, Gavin. How’d the meeting go? They fire your ass yet?”

 

“Hah. Hilarious. He had it coming, you saw the way he strutted around the place like he owned it.”

 

Tina smiled into her cup of coffee. “See? Foresight not in evidence.”

 

“Prick.”

 

“No, thank you.”

 

Reed turned his cup some 90 degrees, baring his teeth in the most begrudging way. Sometimes he hated the way his own mind worked. “I guess...I should ask the freak where he learned those moves.”

 

Tina came to sit on the bar stool beside him, taking off her hat. “It was badass.”

 

“...yeah. Ugh, and here comes Bert and Ernie.”

 

***

 

Hank sighed loudly through his nose, mouth pressed into a line high above his row of upper teeth. “I guess it’s down to trauma, or some shit like that, Hell knows I’m fuzzy on the details with Cole, but…”

 

“Yeah, crap… I’m sorry, Hank.” Collins took the lead into the break room. “That’s gotta be one helluva blow. How’s he holding up?”

 

“He’s digging through his family’s papers. Couldn’t get a wink last night… It’s gotta be in there somewhere. You know? Even if almost everything’s digitalized these days. It’s just a matter of finding the right file, or something.”

 

“Yeah… But his own brother? How can you not rememb--...”

 

Just then he noticed Reed and Chen by the bar table, and halted his steps, Hank following suit after almost bumping into him.

 

“Hiya, Chen. Reed.”

 

“Good morning, Collins,” she said, “Lieutenant.”

 

They each got a cup of coffee from the machine, then made themselves scarce, leaving Reed with a funny look on his face.

 

As it just so happened, Reed knew something they obviously didn’t. They hadn’t ran a background check on the suspicious looking new guy - and they hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t felt like sharing. It was highly unlikely that he was going to, after this morning’s HR meeting.

 

Connor was the only child. Military family, mostly absent father (because, work and shit), deaf mother. No records of any siblings, anywhere in the world - and they had moved around a  _ lot _ .

 

He didn’t have a brother. So why did Bert and Ernie  _ act like he did _ ?

 

***

 

It had been hours since Hank dropped him off back at his place, since he was back in the relative safety of his home, and Connor hadn’t moved one inch off the couch. One of Hank’s playlists blared from his portable speaker, filling the small space with heavy guitar riffs set to somewhat disturbing words of...relative wisdom.  _ Libertà _ , it was called. Freedom. 

 

_ When you're feeling choked and killed _

_ By the way you have to live _

_ And the taste in your mouth is guilt _

_ Try livin’ off the grid _

 

Unafraid of being rude...don’t wanna be like you...who’s the fool…

 

It was enticing, the very notion of disappearing off the face of the earth, of being disconnected from everything, to live in a state of complete erasure. No social media presence (although, he couldn’t claim to have a presence, really. He’d never been much of a social minded person. He tended to follow timelines and streams, just observing in the background. It suited him better). No digital bread crumbs, no traceable transactions of money or services, no records…

 

Turning between his hands was a small, see through medicine bottle filled with tiny white pills. He’d been staring at the label almost as long as he’d sat there, thinking things through very carefully. Dr Z. Andronikov… He hadn’t been to the doctor’s office since he was a child, and the headaches started, shortly after his brother...went away. He had video call check ups once every year, but that’s it. He had a friendly, disarming face, growing a bit gray at the temples lately. He could remember the first time they met, and how Dr Andronikov didn’t look like your regular doctor. He hated white lab coats, as a child. In the years since, he’d grown out of it, realizing it was a uniform like any other. Andronikov was soft-voiced, had warm eyes and a ready smile. Disarming. Dispelling any fears you might have of doctors, or hospitals, when you’re a child dealing with death at much too young an age.

 

He’d never questioned his background, or his memories. Trauma alone was often cause enough for memory loss, a fact which didn’t bother him overmuch. He had been taking antidepressants since the age of nine or ten, and painkillers, for the headaches… He knew he’d read the Important Information stuck to the side of the jars a hundred times over, because it’s something he always did. He read instruction manuals, he read disclaimers, he read EULAs from start to finish - and didn’t understand why people didn’t, and then got upset when the stipulations in the agreement were enforced.

 

He’d read the list of side effects a hundred times, and they had never bothered him. He’d never noticed any side effects - he already had headaches, and he’d always had difficulty sleeping a full eight hours per 24 hour cycle, so he never really cared about those. But there was one item on that list that bothered him now. It had seemed so insignificant before, but now it rang inside his mind like the blaring of sirens. Memory loss, and/or blackouts.

 

Use with caution…

 

Why couldn’t he remember his own brother’s name?

 

Connor shook his head, and despite Chloe admonishing him not to do it,  _ no _ , he tightened his grip on the bottle and marched to the bathroom. Down the toilet they went, every last one of them. It was against his better judgment, he knew; and Chloe knew. Chloe was very upset with him, citing the one thing one does not want to hear after ditching a supposedly vital medication regimen.

 

“You should NEVER stop taking your medicine without consulting a physician! Connor! What are you doing in there?! Don’t make me call Doctor Zlatko!”

 

Very suddenly he felt a spike of resentment, sparking a different side of him that rarely showed its ugly mug to the world. He was the most stubborn person he knew, if he set his mind to it. He was downright pigheaded.

 

He replaced the pills gone down the drain with some of his vitamins, as they were of practically the same size, shape and density. Practically, but not exactly. Which was why he shook his fist at Chloe, to make the pills inside rattle around - and they sounded near perfect in tone and pitch.

 

It shut Chloe up, whether she believed he’d thrown them all away, or kept just enough to tide him over until his next call to the doctor’s office.

 

***

 

Less than a week off from Christmas, Amanda was not feeling in a charitable mood. Between the end of term admin and all that came along with running a successful school on her own terms, and organizing a secret santa for the staff, she had enough on her plate to be dealing with...recent events.

 

Recurring. Events.

 

She had been seeing a pattern in her data for quite some time now, and naturally, as was her duty, she had to deal with her findings. She had to gather the data, present it to the next level of command (she had only one, for which she was grateful, although lately she had come to turn her ever critical eye on more...internal red flags), and then she acted according to the judgment of her superiors. She knew her end goal, and assumed every player knew theirs and did not deviate from it.

 

She turned the white queen on her chess board one hundred and eighty degrees, precisely. Facing the zen garden. Yes…

 

She slowly filled her lungs with air, letting it out in the imaginary shape of a perfect octagon, then picked up her ear piece; the one she used for the sake of discretion just as much as compartmentalization. She pressed the button to initiate a call, and picked the correct box from within her mind palace. Inside the box was a small clay figurine, intricate but solid at the same time. It was a golem, and not just any golem, but the one called  _ Yossele _ , brought to life by rabbi Loew, of Prague. Centuries ago now, the legend still survived today, of a man made creature summoned up to protect those in need.

 

It reminded her of years gone by, when she had a bright, young protegé whose limits reached farther than the sky.

 

She touched the golem’s forehead; symbolic encryption had always been her preferred mode. No one in their right mind would ever associate the great Elijah Kamski, retired founder of CyberLife, with a clay statuette. But… That was the entire point. To her mind, there was a blatantly obvious link, and it fit.

 

The digitalized dial tone rang in her ear. She opened her eyes, picked up her cup of tea. A familiar voice answered on the other end. Kamski’s pet assistant. Bright enough, Amanda suspected, but Kamski kept her on too tight a leash.

 

_ ‘Elijah will take your call shortly. Please hold.’ _

 

It was hardly one step up from the automated voice messages from thirty years ago, but her voice was pleasant enough. Amanda sipped her tea, and steeled her jaw as the line crackled to life.

 

“You know why I’m calling,” she said. There was a time for preamble, and this was not it. “You assured me it was completely safe, that you ran all the tests necessary, did all the calculations.”

 

She tilted her chin down, listening to her former student try to placate her. It wouldn’t stand. She was not the maternal figure he found himself sadly lacking, nor was she the professor that could be persuaded to give you just one more day. She was never that kind of professor. More importantly in the here and now, they were partners. “This is  _ escalating _ , Elijah.

 

“First the Jerries develop acute paranoia, one by one - and how in the world you thought creating a  _ hive mind _ was ethically justifiable is beyond me!”

 

She set her cup down on the saucer with the slightest hint of a clatter. Her eyes narrowed. “I am aware I signed off on our projects,” she said, her voice as cold as an arctic wind. “I trusted your brilliant mind to be tempered by your finely honed sense of morals. It’s a characteristic I am starting to realize you’ve lost along the way.”

 

She turned on her heel, ninety degrees  _ precisely _ , and opened the door out onto her garden. If she could regain her equilibrium anywhere in this world or any other, it was here. This was her space. “Why the secrecy?”

 

She sat down by the only seating available, a carved stone structure that was low to the ground, and beautifully clean. All angles, pure architecture. Austere and elegant at the same time. It was one of her designs, as was everything else in this little safehaven of hers.

 

“Don’t play coy. I’m not talking about Need to Know, I want to know why you lied to me. Hive minds, precognition, superhuman strength and speed… Minds like supercomputers--”

 

She let out a soundless sigh, lowering her cup and saucer to her lap first, then setting it onto the snowy ground. She clasped her hands in her lap. Elijah had told her nothing to allay her fears of what was to come. If he stayed passive, it was only a matter of time before more people would get hurt.  _ Real people _ .

 

“You saw the data I sent you. They’re coming back, Elijah. Everyone, meandering their way back to where it all began. The situation will be untenable in no time, the Jerries won’t come  _ close _ to the  _ shitstorm _ sweeping in. Now,  _ what are you going to do about it? _ ”

 

***

 

“Okay… We’re set! Sorry about that, new app, still figuring things out, but we’re recording!” Kara set her tablet on her desk, connecting the keyboard with a click and a tap on the screen. She had a very particular patient on the other line of a video call, as requested. Connor had something he wanted to work on, and it didn’t involve Hank, who had said, in no uncertain terms, that he’d love to join another of their sessions.  _ Whenever _ , he’d said, and Connor had replied  _ Yes! _ And… Here they were. No Hank, calling each other on the sly.

 

Was that even the right term? She had to watch more gangster movies. ...if that was even the right genre.

 

“Just for the record, this is session number twenty-two, and we’re recording this as part of procedure. Like we would any other session. I’m Kara, this is Connor, and today we are going to work on some key phrases. Exciting stuff!”

 

Connor looked less excited, but she couldn’t tell if he was feeling a bit under the weather or sick with nervous tension. “I have your list here. There’s quite a few significant stuff here. Hang on, I’ll show the camera. That’s okay, isn’t it? For the record.”

 

Connor nodded. They both knew it was going into his file, but sometimes she just liked making double sure everything was saved properly. Unlike her mother’s last paper before graduating high school. She fumbled her ctrl+ commands, lost the entire thing, and had to stay up all night retyping the whole paper from memory. And she had never stopped telling Kara about it. Hence, backups, and backups of the backups. You never knew just what might crash, at any given moment.

 

“Where do you want to start? If you pick a sentence, I could sound out the words… Or just mime.” Anything to ease the forward momentum he’d been on the past week or so. Connor fidgeted, sitting in his own space, blushing like a ripe cherry.

 

‘The third one,’ he said, and Kara smiled.

 

“That one’s the most difficult of them all. You sure you don’t want to work your way up to it?” She teased, gentle as always. It’s the truth. That phrase was one of the most difficult phrases in the entire world.

 

Connor gestured for her to go ahead, and she nodded. Time to put her more professional hat on. “Alright. If you want to try saying it with me first? First word. I…”

 

Every time she repeated the word, she smiled, hoping to encourage her patient to go ahead. Every time, she could see Connor working up the nerve, deep breaths, indicating himself by pointing at his chest. His app was turned off for the time being (or Kara assumed it was, as Chlo-e didn’t translate), but Connor was still signing. He’d been doing it so long, it was bound to feel comforting. It was his mother’s tongue, he’d grown up in a bilingual home, of course he would always feel more comfortable with ASL.

 

“I…” said Kara, for the nth time. She wasn’t counting. She was too focused on Connor, watching emotion wash over his face and light up his eyes. He was breathing faster, obviously distressed. She stayed quiet for a moment, hoping that gesture could tell him there was no rush. She’d learned early on that sometimes they got nowhere if she just kept talking. When Connor got stressed, he responded better to body language.

 

So too, this time. Slowly, slowly, Connor’s breath evened out. He visibly forced himself to breathe deeper, in through his nose, out through his mouth. He pushed his shoulders back, lifted his chest, as if posture alone could make it easier. It certainly wasn’t a revolutionary concept.

 

She tried it again. Just that one, tiny little word. “I…?”

 

Connor clasped his hands in his lap, out of view of the lens. Kara guessed his knuckles were completely whited out from stress. This was a big step, he couldn’t falter now, or they risked months of hard work. Kara nodded, encouraging, staring at the screen.

 

He breathed in, deep, and out, slow…and for the longest time, he didn’t say a thing.

 

Then, a muscle jumping at his jaw. “...[ai]…”

 

Kara gasped, unable to contain herself. She nearly bounced in her seat, closing her fists ready to punch the air. “Yes! Exactly! ‘I…’ Try to remember what it felt like to shape that sound. And when you’re ready, try it agai--”

 

But Connor didn’t need to be prompted. “[ai]...” His breathing picked up again, his hands went to cover his mouth. His eyes looked away, blinking very fast.

 

The first word he’d spoken out loud, in his own voice, in decades… Of course it wasn’t just a big step, objectively speaking, but she couldn’t imagine what it felt like to him. Such a deceptively simple word, ‘I’, but so closely tied to the sense of self and identity, of ownership of one’s self: legitimacy. Autonomy. Self-governance. Independence. Just one, small word, but like most words it held veritable multiverses of meaning.

 

Kara could see something new in Connor’s eyes, as they smiled at each other over the 5G link. On more than one occasion over the past months he’d been adamant that the spoken word was mostly useless and completely arbitrary, and he’d been fully functional all this time without making noises, so why should he ever need to ‘find his voice’ again.

 

The answer was simple, to the point:  _ because you can _ , just like Amanda had told them both that first time they both came in for Connor’s first session. And that memory sparked another one, something Amanda had said towards the very end of that first hour:  _ Everyone’s voice is unique _ , she’d said, and turned to Connor.

 

_ But I believe yours has the power to change the world. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, but maybe that's a good thing after the last two? You tell me! :) More to come soon!
> 
> And yes, Connor speaks in phonemes. :D Or will, initially. Until he figures out how to shape all these dang sounds again (which won’t be long, and also, he’ll have Other Things on his mind in the coming chapters).


	9. Revelations, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Secretary of Homeland Security tells you bad things are on the horizon and people's lives are at stake, perhaps it's in the best interest of the entire nation that you listen - however, the president has a different view of events. But, as will become evident, things are rarely as simple as they seem - and even the best of humanity can sanction the most horrendous crimes for a greater purpose.
> 
> Connor suffers terrible nightmares in the wake of going off his medication. Christmas Eve, tragedy strikes. Suddenly Hank's not only lost one of his friends, but inadvertently sent him to his death. There's a mass murder, leaving Detroit PD with more questions than they have answers for. A young girl is among the victims, and Hank just can't cope anymore.
> 
> As for Connor...
> 
> With the Deviant hunter coming for him, his entire future hangs in the balance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((6/20 update: Just changed the placing of where Markus watches the news. The scene fits better where I put it, I think. Otherwise, no major changes! :D))
> 
> Arrrrrgh, so many things to keep track of, I need a break, someone plz pass the coffee? No, the whole jug.
> 
> Ahhhhhhhhhhh...
> 
> Remind me never to attempt any kind of governmental spin/political drama ever again? Okay. Thanks. XD <3<3<3
> 
> More revelations to come next chapter! Hang in there!

* * *

 

 

[WASHINGTON DC, DECEMBER 19th 5:03 AM. Location: Oval Office]

 

“Madam President, the situation is untenable at best! The readings we’re getting out of Detroit alone--”

 

The president raised her hand to forestall any more exclamations from her Secretary of Homeland Security. “Yes, Davis, I heard you the first time. No personal commentary, facts only. What are we facing, here? A handful of incidents, with one lethal outcome? I hardly think that’s cause for alarm.”

 

“A handful of incidents, yes, but my analyst insists they’re indicative of something much bigger. Dozens of subjects are moving back to Detroit. We don’t know what’s causing them to move, why now-- It’s not what we _know_ that’s cause for concern, Madam President, but what we _don’t_. The HK400 in custody is one of the most docile of our test subjects. He’s literally never hurt a fly in his life, and out of the blue, he brutally murders his childhood friend. The EM400 subjects are all showing the same signs of mental instability. If one of them snaps, there’s an estimated 83% risk of a chain reaction throughout the test group.”

 

President Warren let her eyes run down the length of the spreadsheet. “‘ _If_ ’ being the operative word, here. The EM400s are harmless, docile individuals. Law abiding, hard working citizens - every last one of them. The same can be said for our AX400 subjects. From what I can tell, the project as a whole has fared better than expected. Statistically speaking, the test subjects are less likely to suffer illness than the population at large, mental or physical. They are less prone to substance abuse, criminal activity, to violence. As a social experiment, it’s nothing short of a success.”

 

Davis’ jawline wavered, settling into a harsh line. The president furrowed her brow in a non-verbal warning. “If there’s something I need to know that you’re not telling me, I suggest you change that tack, but _immediately_.”

 

“Kamski’s special projects, Ma’am.”

 

“What about them?”

 

“...there’s another one. A personal project that’s only recently come to light.”

 

If the sinking feeling in her gut was anything to go by, she was not going to like this. “ _Another one_.”

 

“Markus found it. Him. He was brought in as a civilian consultant on the Ortiz case. He has all the markings of an RK model, but-- more advanced. We have no idea what he’s capable of.”

 

So that was the proverbial elephant in the room - that big, mysterious Unknown that Davis was so spooked about: a secret so well kept not even he knew of, and he was around when it all started.

 

“Then I suggest you find out. And fast.”

 

***

 

[STERLING HEIGHTS, DETROIT. Hank’s residence.]

 

_The gun on the floor! Take it!_

 

He’s at the side of the road, watching the world rush by him. He’s trying to hitch a ride home, but home is where the heart is and his bio component’s missing. He can’t remember where he comes from, and the world passes him by in tiny little increments so fast the human eye can’t detect it. He watches everything unfold in slow-motion. The ground starts to crack beneath his feet, a girl screams in the background - right there in front of him, she’s falling, and fire licks at her hair like giant, monstrous tongues--

 

He starts running, up, up, up the road, up the hill, and the road raises itself 90 degrees; she will fall, he has to catch her before she falls - _I loved them! I loved her!_ \- he runs, words echoing in his mind, hitting him like wrecking balls, like physical accusations drawing blood. It spatters all across his visual cortex, a stark, blue contrast to the fire.

 

The girl’s screams ring out, he runs up, vertical, runs like he was born to run, and she falls--

 

_I’m nothing to them! I thought we were family!_

 

Bright blue eyes stare into his soul, and from there on in there’s no return. They’re past the point of no return, because _Daniel_ puts the gun to his head and pulls the trigger.

 

She falls forever, clutched in the arms of inescapable death, forever, and Connor runs, but he’s too late.

 

The darkness of the bedroom did nothing to soothe him as his eyes flew open, because it didn’t mean anything. He was at the wrong place and the-- present time, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had to find the gun, had to get back to the roadside, he had to find the girl--

 

Arms flailing in the dark, legs kicking out, limbs caught in heavy sheets and--

 

“...heyyy, honey, shhh… Connor, babe, wake up. Wake up, now, shh...”

 

His heart kept racing in his chest, but the familiar rasp of that voice soothed him enough to relax into Hank’s arms. Big, strong arms, and a soft chest and belly to snuggle up to, and stubble running down the front of his throat, and his lovely beard…

 

“Hmmmnnn,” Connor hummed, rolling over in the comforting circle of Hank’s arms, just so he could breathe in the scent of him, of day old cologne and take away from ChickenFeed.

 

“Thereyago,” Hank murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his hair, cuddling closer as if he could read Connor’s mind.

 

“Wanna tell me ‘bout it?”

 

Connor shook his head. “Hnn. Uh-uh.”

 

Hank yawned, and ran his hand over Connor’s back in broad, soothing strokes. “I heard this...factoid once, on QI, I think...gawd, it’s decades ago, now… The brain’s more prone to nightmares or disturbing dreams if one sleeps on the left hand side.”

 

Connor nodded; he knew that already, but Hank loved sharing ‘factoids’ like these, even if they were very old news - and Connor didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d heard/read/written-about them all before.

 

“Huh.”

 

“Yeah,” rasped Hank. “You’re on your right side now… Maybe it’ll help you sleep better… Give it a go...”

 

And on that hopeful note of encouragement, Hank drifted off again. Sumo snored contentedly behind him; Connor reached out to pet his soft coat of fur. Maybe it wasn’t just interesting trivia. Maybe it would work. He’d never taken note of which side he slept on, before…mostly because he didn’t tend to sleep. Much.

 

***

 

_Put the gun down, NOW!_

 

*

 

Sleeping on his right hand side didn’t help with the nightmares - and while it was true he didn’t need as much sleep as science would have you believe, he’d really come to enjoy it. He’d become used to short naps and more or less dreamless nights, but after Hank… That should be a calendar of its own, Before Hank and After Hank, Year 0 starting the first time he slammed face first into that tree trunk of a human being…

 

He’d come to enjoy so many new things since meeting Hank - just talking to someone other than Chloe, in real time, in real life; being in close proximity to someone, to be quiet and completely comfortable and feeling like there’s no need to fill the silence. He loved the way they could look at each other and instantly know what the other was thinking, no actual words needed. Sometimes words were overrated, and sometimes… He’d come to realize just how important they were, to him. Not just to speak his mother’s tongue, but to use his voice again after so long. It was just humming, so far, with Hank (and Kara), but he had plans. He was working on it. He had an entire week of practice to get it just right, to make sure he didn’t sound like anything but himself come Christmas Day. He wanted it to be just right, just-- perfect. Because Hank was perfect (for him), and he deserved the perfect (for _him_ ) Christmas present.

 

But, the point being, he couldn’t sleep without having nightmares, which meant he stayed up listening to music for hours and hours. Kara had suggested he try singing along to his favorite songs, in the privacy of his own place, and the first time he tried it was an insurmountable _success_ . It sounded completely horrendous, but if he turned the volume up loud enough he could focus on the vibrations in his larynx, and soon he discovered singing wasn’t just a good way to work on his breathing and enunciation, it was _fun_.

 

He didn’t even care if he sounded atrocious, because he had Chloe laughing and cheering him on and singing along with him (he was an _excellent_ mimic), and for a few days that boost of energy was all he needed to recharge his batteries.

 

Then one day, in between contemplating what he’d have for lunch or if he should just keep on coding for another few hours, he found himself sagging forward only to startle right back to wakefulness.

 

He accepted defeat, put his laptop away and lay back on his couch, pulling the blanket draped over the backrest to cover him. He felt cold, but the blanket was heavy, comforting, grounding him into the moment.

 

Connor closed his eyes, slowly, slowly, eyelids blinking onto a different time and place etched into the back of his mind.

 

When he opened them again, he stood at the edge of a roof terrace, 70 floors up, balancing precariously on the soles of his feet. His heels hovered in the air, rising and falling like laboured breathing-- and there was a weight in his arms, a little girl pressed against him, weeping.

 

_Hello, Connor! My name is Daniel!_

 

Connor twitched, fingers tightening around the gun in his hand. “How-- How do you know my name?!”

 

_I know a lot of things about you… I’ve come to get you out of this._

 

*

 

He startled awake, eyes opening onto his ceiling, his walls, his monitor in the corner, his couch, and he was sweating and cold at the same time, and _completely_ unable to move. He could hear his own breathing in the far distance, his heart raced in his chest at 120bpm, he was trapped, completely, overwhelmingly weighed down by the blanket covering his front - he couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell Chloe something was wrong, and the one time he wanted nothing more than to scream at the top of his lungs he couldn’t even push enough air through his mouth to alert anyone’s attention.

 

His head throbbed with pain, feeling like it was going to crack open like a raw egg, and he could. Not. Move.

 

... _someone’s at the door_ , he thought, over and over, trying to look far enough behind him but unable to see anything from this angle. Someone’s at the door, someone’s at the door, _someone’s   at the        door!_

 

He had to run. He had to get out of there, and every second he lay there paralyzed was one less second he had to-- RUN!!!

 

Connor closed his eyes again, squeezing them shut as hard as he could. If he could just-- pick apart the universe one mathematical or physical law at a time, he would be alright. He’d be fine, he’d be alright, everything would be alright again...

 

...eventually the adrenaline high wore off, after telling himself over and over again that it was just a nightmare, he wasn’t really awake, he was probably just experiencing some sort of fever induced hallucination - none of it was real. He managed to close his eyes, managed to squeeze them tight and will his heart rate to level out to its normal 49bpm. Connor sighed, finally able to relax.

 

“...are you okay?” Chloe asked him, her voice sounding very distant and small - only...it wasn’t Chloe at all, but his own mirror image staring at him from the black screen in the corner.

 

It didn’t matter that he’d closed his eyes, when he could still see every last detail of the room as crisp as any 8K Ultra HD rendition - and he was wrong all along, there was no one at the door, because they were already in there with him.

 

He was trapped in a nightmare, and he couldn’t get out.

 

***

 

For Hank, this time of year was always a struggle. It was Cole’s favorite season, right next to Halloween. They used to light candles every Sunday for Advent, a tradition Hank wanted to pass on to his son; they’d make Christmas decorations and presents for Sumo, and write down long, long lists of all the food they were going to eat. He and Andy, Cole’s mom, had never put too much of an emphasis on Christmas presents, because there was so much more to it than that. Of course they’d traded presents with each other, but, at their heart of hearts they were foodies, so that always took priority. And...the way the house would smell, starting by Thanksgiving? His house hadn’t smelled like that in years, now. Everything lost its charm, after they lost Cole - the candles, the treats, the food.

 

Hank hadn’t enjoyed food for years, much less considered himself anything remotely close to a foodie. A drunkard, now…

 

Every year, he said to himself, _Maybe this time I’ll feel differently. Maybe I’ll cook something, or bake a cake, like grandma’s saffron sponge cake with almonds..._

 

He never felt differently, he always ended up trying to forget - usually with the help of a bottle of Black Lamb, chased down with a couple beers. This year he found it particularly hard to resist, for the simple and utterly stupid reason he was determined not to fall off the wagon...again. Kara was the first to tell him he shouldn’t let one slip up be the end of the world, because it wasn’t. Becoming free of addiction wasn’t _just_ about going cold turkey, it was a process. A long term one, and it was different for everyone. For some, lifelong sobriety was the only way. Others might be able to enjoy a drink every now and then and not fall back into destructive habits and abuse. Hank hoped he might be part of the latter category of people, but he sure as fuck wasn’t there yet.

 

At least, so far, determination was proving enough to steer clear of his old haunts, like Jimmy’s Bar - but the closer he got to Christmas, the harder it got to stay away. Maybe if he could have just one drink after work, maybe he could relax enough to get some sleep. Maybe he wouldn’t need to toss and turn for once, restless and fretful; wouldn’t have to startle Connor awake in the middle of the night, _jesuschrist_ …

 

He’d been doing so well, too. He’d made it through Halloween, and blazed through Thanksgiving high on _love_ . Lovey dovey fluffy crap, but it felt good. It made him feel like a human being again, to be around someone so vibrant, so brilliant, someone so attuned to his cranky old ways. And the banter. _God_.

 

Maybe he’d be fine, after all. And if he wasn’t, he had Connor to lean on. Veritable rock of a guy, he was.

 

He’d be fine.

 

***

 

Christmas Eve. A night of celebration in some parts of the world, a night full of anticipation in others, it was significant, symbolic: a time for families to sit together and cherish each other’s company, be it one’s biological family, or chosen one. Regardless, what Christmas Eve was supposed to be paled in comparison to what it turned into, late at night, at 1554 Park Avenue. There, on the 70th floor, a family was about to have dinner together, lovingly prepared by their personal assistant. He had been with them for years now, taking care of the house, so to speak - caring for the daughter of the house while her parents worked hard, and he cooked and cleaned and made sure all the bills were paid, all the paperwork necessary to either Mr or Mrs Phillips sorted and filed away in order of priority. He did everything for them, because over the years he had come to view them as his family. They were his family.

 

Except, on Christmas Eve, Mr and Mrs Phillips told him his services were no longer needed. They had placed an order for the new, fully integrated Chlo-e system, and as he was well aware, Emma was going to attend virtual classes starting January. She was old enough to cook for herself, and with Chlo-e keeping an eye on her, she would thrive, grow into a more independent girl.

 

And not to worry - Daniel would get a glowing letter of recommendation. He’d have a new job with a new family in no time.

 

The only problem being Daniel didn’t want a new family.

 

***

 

_At approximately twenty-five minutes past seven, Daniel goes into the master bedroom, and takes Mr Phillips’ gun from its case. In a matter of minutes, they’re both dead, and little Emma sits in her room, blissfully unaware. Daniel goes for her next._

 

***

 

Just after seven in the evening on Christmas Eve, Hank got a very disturbing phone call from his partner - Connor was as frantic as he ever got, though there were times when Hank had the strange feeling that Chloe was more upset than he was, and this was one such occasion. She sounded close to tears over the phone, begging him to send someone over to 1554 Park Avenue. He said someone was going to get killed, an entire family, and they had to stop it before it was too late. Hank couldn’t believe his own ears.

 

“...wait, how do you know this? What family? Who? Do you know someone at that address?”

 

He had a dozen questions at the ready, but Connor couldn’t (or wouldn’t) explain. He didn’t know anyone there, he didn’t have any evidence other than a hunch, and even for someone like Hank who at times trusted his gut instincts more than the facts before him, it was a bit of a stretch even for him. You couldn’t send a patrol car to someone’s residence on a hunch - and, 1554 Park Ave? That was a massive building, nothing but hot shots as far as the eye could see. He wasn’t about to ask Miller to drive by and go door knocking sixty something floors, on the off chance someone was having a Very Bad Day (™)?

 

It was never gonna fly, which is what he told Connor, who gave a heavy sigh, and hung up on him.

 

It _was_ never gonna fly, never, not in a million years…

 

And yet, he’d never known Connor to tell him anything he wasn’t one hundred percent sure of. He’d been right, too. About Carlos Ortiz’s co-habitant. About the attic. About the abuse…

 

It took him a good half hour of arguing back and forth in his own mind, telling himself he was a fool to believe him, and he’d be a fool forced to live with regrets the size of Lake Superior if it turned out Connor was right. Even if it was just a hunch to other people, Connor’s brain worked on a completely different level than everyone else’s. If he was worried, then there was cause for worry.

 

...and it couldn’t harm anyone if he asked an old friend for a favor. He was just one brief phone call away, after all.

 

“...hey, Deckart! Yeah, fuck _me_ , it’s Christmastime all over again. How’s the holidays treating you? Yeah? And the kids? Word of caution, do _not_ take ‘em to see the latest Lanwing movie, it _stinks_. How one guy can completely monopolize the entire movie industry with that kind of trash, I’ll never understand.”

 

Antony didn’t mind swinging by the apartment building on his way home, and he didn’t give Hank too much of a hard time about his hunches and anonymous leads. It was probably nothing, and Hank could get him some goddamn movie tickets for the trouble.

 

The things old friends do for each other, and whatnot…

 

***

 

Every night was a working night, as far as Markus was concerned. Tomorrow, he’d stop by his father’s house for dinner, but both Carl and Leo knew he was always on call. He had an important job, working for very important people, and while Carl didn’t approve, he’d come to terms with it. Markus was a special kid, growing up: it was no wonder he’d grow up to be a specialist in his field. That he worked for the government and couldn’t discuss what was so special about his work, well, that was neither here nor there.

 

Christmas Eve, Markus was watching the news, as quite possibly most of Detroit. Anyone with a smartphone would have gotten a news bulletin flashing across the top of the screen, or a text about the hostage situation taking place. It went without saying that the police wanted witnesses to come forward, or indeed anyone who knew Daniel, or the Phillips family - but the press? The assorted media outlets were like vultures.

 

Markus smiled, and accepted the incoming call he’d been waiting for. “Yes, I’m watching. He won’t last long. Even if they send up their best negotiator, they won’t know how to talk to him. Chance of success? Minimal. Single digits.”

 

He sipped his water, put the glass down on the counter. The time for awaiting further instructions was over. He knew exactly how to proceed.

 

“Should I leave the usual references? I’ll take care of it.”

 

***

 

As far as Simon was concerned, Christmas Eve was just another day. In this case, it was just another Friday, and rather than being the sensible adult he liked to think he was, Simon felt like having a big slice of apple pie for dinner. Apple pie positively swimming in cinnamon and sugar, and buttery, perfectly baked pastry. And tea. Everyone knew the best food was the food you didn’t have to make yourself, and why not? Why not treat yourself the night before Christmas?

 

He walked into his favorite diner on the corner down the street from where he lived, and smiled at the freckled face behind the desk. Jerry was looking positively morose in his Santa’s Happy Helper outfit, and he was usually the first one out the gate when it came to costumes.

 

“Hey, Jerry, Merry Christmas! How’s it going?”

 

“Busy as always,” said Jerry, fidgeting, eyes going to the one, lonely tv set in the corner. “But, wow, am I glad to see you, um. You didn’t… I mean, did you hear about the PA and the little girl? For a second there I thought I was seeing things, but you’re here! So...”

 

Simon frowned, his eyes tracking Jerry’s line of sight, to the tv screen. A guy with a mic was reporting from the inside of some form of vehicle - a hostage situation?

 

“I turned my phone off the moment I left work, catch up on the news over breakfast.”

 

“Fridays, huh,” said Jerry, lackluster and monotone. It made something clench in Simon’s stomach. Not so much the fact Jerry knew about his Friday night rituals, but the fact he hadn’t said why he was happy to see him when there’s a--

 

The camera drone swerved backwards, showing that the reporter was up in the air, in a helicopter circling a highrise in the more affluent part of Detroit’s metropolitan area. The camera panned from one end of the roof terrace to the other, showing blurred outlines, shadowy figures…

 

But Simon looked, and squinted, and what he saw completely and irrevocably changed the way he viewed the world.

 

He saw his own face, his own body - agitated and desperate, eyes and nose red from crying, cheeks flushed - and he was screaming at someone up there with him. The man wearing his face wanted a helicopter, he wanted out of there, he’d let the girl go once they were out of the city…

 

“But that’s… That’s not--” Simon couldn’t draw a breath if his life depended on it. His heart raced in his chest, frantic. “I’m-- right here, that’s-- That’s not me. I don’t--” He didn’t have a brother, did he? He’d never had any siblings, none at all, but-- How--

 

Negotiations failed within seconds. The man on the tv screen raised the gun to his temple, a loud blast rang across the open air, but all Simon could hear was the young girl’s screams as they both fell backwards over the edge of the roof.

 

***

 

Heart pounding so high up in her throat it threatened to paralyze her vocal chords, Amanda hurried down the hallways, dial tone ringing monotone and foreboding in her ear. She never ran in the corridors, because you  _ never _ ran, but walked, with grace, poise, and dignity - but the storm she’d seen on the horizon was well and truly here, and it was only a matter of time before everything would fall apart. Two cases with deadly outcome in less than a month, an assault, and multiple cases of paranoid delusions (that weren’t delusions at all, but they had no evidence as to why all the Jerries had suddenly started coming back to Detroit, nothing to show for even with all her statistics and her data, and she was running out of time), everything seemed to be happening at once, coalescing into one, searing point of undeniable fact: they were waking up. All of them.

 

She had to get to her office, to her zen garden, she had to find  _ something _ to show for all her efforts. Players were revealing themselves, picking the roles they’d play, and soon she too would have to make her choice. For every incident, she grew less certain of exactly  _ what  _ she would have to be in the coming months. Or, indeed, if she would be here at all, if push came to shove. The odds were stacking up against her, it didn’t look too good. But she knew her place for the relevant time, if nothing else, and in the present time she was to be stoic and in control, perfectly calm. She was the port in the storm, the one her superiors looked to for guidance.

 

The call connected, she squared her jaw in preparation. “I saw the news. This is what I’ve been telling you for the past two months, it’s all in my data. I don’t need to remind you people are dying.  _ Real people _ . If you have any kind of contingency plan still in place, I suggest you dust it off and get reacquainted with procedure. This is getting out of hand. Now, will you  _ please _ listen to me?”

 

She reached her office, the door gliding open for her as she approached. It closed behind her, silent as death. She stopped mid step, eyes widening. Her lips opened on a soundless gasp.

 

She rolled her jaw from side to side, and straightened out her entire spinal column. “No, sir. I am not implying the President doesn’t know how to do her job. My apologies. --yes. I’ll be on standby until my services are called for.”

 

Disconnected, Amanda plucked the ear piece out, and gazed toward her zen garden. Every day it grew colder, and she knew she couldn’t let herself be drawn to it when the temperature kept dropping… But it was late, now. Long after the end of classes. No one was around to see her sitting in her atrium, built up of glass walls and nothing between it and the sky up above.

 

She allowed herself a small sigh, and picked up a steaming cup of tea from her desk. As she picked it up, the fine ceramic seemed to stretch and crackle like static. Was something interfering with her protocols? She would have to run a fair number of calculations, and the zen garden was her base of operations. Her hub. She was safe, there.

 

One slow step after another, she walked out into the garden, snow crunching beneath her shoes. If she had to sit here for hours, ‘meditating’, then that’s what she would do. Too much was at stake now, too many lives were at risk - and it was only a matter of time before someone decided the RK800 was a ticking time bomb. She couldn’t ignore the risks, despite her personal investment in the…’subject’ these past ten months. She had to run all possible scenarios, as she could foresee them, and decide on her own way forward. The events of the next few days would shape the world, and she had to be prepared.

 

Little did she know, for all her supposed omniscience, that she had only the smallest amount of control over what was about to happen - but she had a hunch, and that was by far enough cause for alarm.

 

***

 

9 PM,  1554 Park Avenue, Hank stepped out of his car and walked up to the quietest crime scene you could possibly imagine. The street had been cordoned off one block in either direction to keep the public and the media out, but that didn’t account for the ghostly silence that turned the air into a wall that you had to push your way through, thick as concrete.

 

Hank watched the faces of the officers hanging around the secondary crime scene, and the CSU technicians - seasoned, properly trained, not a single rookie in sight, and everyone looked as though they’d been crying.

 

Collins was there, looking twenty years older already. As if he wasn’t already white haired enough. He was the one to steer Hank away from the two bodies on the ground, or what was left of them; he was the one to herd him into the elevator and press the buttons for the 70th. The Phillips residence. The primary scene: the place where everything spiraled out of control, and a household assistant and childcare provider killed two people in cold blood, and violated the trust of a little girl he’d helped raise for the past six or seven years - and then proceeded to kill three police officers.

 

Hank felt like punching his hand through a wall. No. What he actually felt like doing was take a detour to the nearest bar and not leave unless they hauled his ass out the door.

 

P.O Deckart was the first responding officer. Antony, dead in a pool of his own blood, shot through the heart. His kids would never see him again. Didn’t matter that they were old enough to take care of themselves, or that they lived halfway across the country. Deckard had worked his ass off to be the best single parent he could be. Now he was dead and gone, over something as stupid as calling in a favor after twenty years of friendship-- and for what?

 

The worst kind of hunch: the one that turned out not just as bad as you feared, but worse than you could’ve possibly imagined.

 

***

 

Closing time at Jimmy’s Bar saw a very sombre trio exit stage right. Hank was one drink off from complete oblivion, Ben hadn’t stopped apologizing since his first text asking Connor to come talk some sense into Hank, and Connor felt saddened more than anything. Tonight he had watched the news with a sinking, clenching, funereal feeling in his stomach. Correction: he couldn’t watch the news, but listened to the tv while pacing back and forth in his apartment. So many people had died, and all he had done about it was call Hank. He could’ve gone there himself, gone up in the elevator, talked to Daniel and...maybe it could have turned out differently. Maybe he could have saved the girl from his dreams, averted disaster. Maybe Hank’s old friend wouldn’t have died.

 

But, if wishes were horses… Which they clearly were not…

 

He reassured Ben for the fifth time, with a smile and a nod, they’d be fine, he got this, no problem - and when the old ball of nervous tension once again went to apologize, Connor leaned in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. It was enough to cut him off long enough for Connor to nod his chin at the taxi stop down the street, arching his eyebrows in the most well meaning way.

 

Ben nodded. “Alright. Look, call me if you need anything. Number’s on Hank’s phone. And drive safe!”

 

They parted ways, Connor unfolding Hank’s long limbs into the back of the car and nonetheless securing seat belts as best he could. Safety first, even with near ubiquitous vehicular automation.

 

He drove Hank to his home, where he helped him out of his work clothes that smelled of trace evidence and death and hard liquor; and when he had to throw up, Connor held his hair back. He caressed his forehead, let him rest his head on his lap right there on the bathroom floor, and listened to Hank’s gravelly voice painting pictures of the scene. Hank’s voice broke when he talked about the girl, calling her by her name, and Connor wiped away his tears without comment.

 

It was all so...pointless. Pointless tragedy, pointless death, and no one seemed to have any answers as to  _ why _ Daniel snapped and slaughtered a family he’d lived with for years. He had no priors, no dark shadows looming in his records at all. For all appearances, he was a model citizen, working hard, keeping his head down, and one of the best at his job.

 

You don’t just take lives like that. It didn’t make any sense at all - and Hank had resorted to the only coping mechanism he knew. Not the only one, added one of Connor’s many trains of synchronous thoughts, but the easiest, most familiar. It was an important distinction to make, but it didn’t make him feel any better having to see Hank in such a state.

 

After a little while, Hank passed out. They stayed on the bathroom floor, Connor’s hand in his hair, the other stroking his arm. Sumo had set up camp right behind them, spread out like a safety blanket. He wondered why this had happened, but more to the point: why had he had those insistent nightmares? There was no such thing as precognition, or soothsaying, or nightmares that come true. Bad omens in the sky, no. He’d never been superstitious, not even as a child. He saw the world as it was: black cats were simply cats with black fur, and a blood moon was an astronomical event, not a clear sign there would be blood…

 

So  _ why _ had those dreams seemed so real? He knew he wasn’t imagining things after the fact, like so many people tended to - filling in the blanks, twisting things to fit a narrative. No… He knew what he had dreamt. He had watched the girl fall to her death, and he had stood on the edge of the rooftop with a gun in his hand, the muzzle pressed to Emma’s head. Daniel. He  _ knew _ his name was Daniel.

 

His voice echoed in Connor’s head -  _ hello, Connor! My name is Daniel! I’ve come to get you out of this! _

 

Connor shook his head; he had a very clear idea of what his priorities were, and right now, it had nothing to do with dream interpretation. Hank’s pulse was within normal range, heart rate too, but he couldn’t be sure Hank wasn’t still in danger. There was the risk of ethylic coma, and he’d much rather know than guesstimate such things. He got up, careful, mindful of his love, and got one of Hank’s no-brand razors from the medicine cabinet.

 

He settled on the floor again, Hank still on his side, in the standard recovery position. Connor opened the pack, took his lover’s left hand, turning it palm up, and pressed the brand new, sharp razor to Hank’s pinkie. Hank didn’t even stir, he was so far gone, completely knocked out.

 

Connor pressed his index finger to the tiny drop of blood oozing from the cut, and touched the sample to his tongue: alcohol levels - high, but metabolizing. So far, so good - he’d make sure to take another sample every hour, for the sake of monitoring Hank’s vitals. He was already calculating the alcohol metabolism rate at the back of his mind. He would adjust accordingly with every sample taken.

 

Considering his role in this--  _ nightmare _ before Christmas, indirect or otherwise, it was the least he could do.

 

A little after five in the morning, Hank was sober enough to be moved to the bed. Connor held him close, kissed his forehead, and let him cry in silence, let him cling to him - telling Hank every way he could that he was loved, and he wasn’t alone in this. Every way, except with his words.

 

***

 

December 25th, Lieutenant Hank Anderson barely had time to step inside the station, what with the mass murder/suicide case. The general consensus was to give him as wide a berth as possible, as he was likely feeling like absolute shit. For obvious reasons - namely his son, who had been dead for over three years now and he still hadn’t moved on, and also, it was little Cole’s favorite time of year. Which meant that, for the time being, Gavin was stuck with the pile of current cases, while  _ Collins _ tagged along with Hank. Of course, this gave Gavin time to consider his options, and before the day was done, he had made his mind up. It wasn’t his problem that Hank was a goddamn idiot for  _ not _ running background checks on every twink he wanted to do disgusting things to, but Hank was his de facto  _ partner _ . Hank was a Lieutenant, for crying out loud, and Gavin had a responsibility towards his ‘partner’. He had information Hank needed to know, so he’d hand it to him. Easy. That it would quite possibly fuck his life up even more than it already was, well… It wasn’t Gavin’s problem if Hank decided he had to take a leave of absence, or quit the force entirely. Not that he thought a mass murder/suicide case involving a kid Cole’s age-if-he-were-still-alive was a  _ good thing _ , but he wasn’t so stupid he wouldn’t take advantage of it if he could. Hank would be having a  _ fantastic _ time already, like he did every year (you know,  _ Cole loved Christmas, _ and all), and this might just be the one thing to send him off the rails completely.

 

Gavin figured he had nothing to lose - either Hank thought it’s a stupid joke, no loss. Or, he’d take it seriously and breaks things off with Wonder Child, no loss there either. Or...it’s all just a little bit too much to handle. In which case, win/win for Gavin-fuckin’-Reed.

 

He left the folder on Hank’s desk, complete with a list of highlights pointing out every instance Connor’s brother was never ever mentioned, because  _ actually _ , he never existed, also Connor was an only child from birth. Look at all those records of a happy family of mommy, daddy and baby Connor.

 

Gotta love background checks, and all the intriguing things you could find. Or, in some cases,  _ not _ find.

 

“Merry Christmas, dipshit.”

 

***

 

Suffice it to say Hank was not having a good morning. He wasn’t having a good day, or a good week,  _ and _ he was nursing the mothership of an alien hangover. One of his oldest friends was dead because of him, and it didn’t matter if he was indirectly responsible, he was still responsible. And now the coroner was informing him the murderous bastard’s body had been taken away.

 

“Claimed? What do you mean it’s been CLAIMED?! By WHO?”

 

The coroner twitched where she stood, but otherwise didn’t budge even for the full brunt of Hank’s misdirected wrath.

 

“I wasn’t here, Lieutenant, I work the day shift-- but the release form was signed by a Special Agent Perkins with the FBI.”

 

***

 

[WASHINGTON DC, DECEMBER 25th 8:14 AM]

 

There was a knock at the door of Secretary Davis’s office, at which he lifted his eyes from his tablet, spying over the hard edge of his horn rimmed glasses. While he didn’t technically need them anymore after a successful corrective visual implant, they lent his face a certain edge of authority - and if there was anything he needed in his current position in the White House cabinet, it was authority.

 

“Rogers!” He called out, returning to his graphs. This was old hat to them, no need to stand on formality with the Secretary of State. “You’re early.”

 

Rogers was a man whose physical appearance belied his rank. A wiry, willowy-limbed man with the exact opposite of ‘strong’ features, Rogers was a veteran in more ways than one. He had made a career in the military, serving his country without hesitation, and had since become a figurehead for the rationally minded civil servant. He had friends in every department of the American government, every office in the near vicinity of Capitol Hill: he was a household name, considered by many to be the first in line to face off against President Warren in the coming election.

 

Unbeknownst to the public at large, he was also sporting the biggest hardon for war that Davis had ever seen. To Rogers’ mind, it wasn’t so much a question of if the war with Russia would come, but  _ how fast _ .

 

“I’m always early, Davis. Can we get down to business already? I’m a busy man, and last I checked, so were you.”

 

Davis clipped his eyes to his old friend’s face. Perhaps they were on opposite sides of a divide that grew for each day that passed, but they were still friends. He plucked his glasses from his eyes, used them to gesture at his tablet. “How many are we talking, here?”

 

Rogers pursed his lips. “Fifty botched attempts, unfit for purpose. We’ve lost eight viable specimens since the start of the project, but every transition has been seamless. Number 59 has carried on where his predecessor left off. A few glitches, but nothing that can’t be ironed out once we launch the RK900 line.”

 

And there it was. Always, it came down to this. “We’ll never get the president to give the all-clear if she so much as suspects the RK800 is fundamentally flawed. If Amanda is right, these aren’t isolated events were seeing in the test groups. It’s spreading, and they’re all coming back here. That alone is cause for alarm. What happens if unsuspecting subjects from the same line start bumping into each other? We’ll be scraping shit off the wall for centuries after it hits the fan, and Kamski won’t get his hands dirty. Fucker’s like teflon.”

 

Naturally, Rogers didn’t take the bait. He had his eyes on the prize, and was nothing if not a pragmatic sonuvagun. “Don’t be ridiculous. The test groups are docile, hard working, honest-to-God Americans. There’s nothing statistically  _ significant _ about a handful going off the reservation.”

 

“Jesus,” Davis cursed. “We have the most technologically advanced AI in the entire country giving us specs, urging us to take preventative measures, and you think there’s nothing  _ significant  _ about it?”

 

“Don’t twist my words just because you know I’m right. So your AI says they’re becoming a problem, we take care of the problem. They’re ‘waking up’, we put them back to sleep. Are the implants malfunctioning, or something?”

 

“We don’t know. That’s what I’m telling you,  _ we don’t know _ . But  _ something _ is happening, and it’s spreading, and if it spreads to the RK800… He’s a one-man army, a tactical deployment just waiting to be activated. The others were ‘docile’. Harmless. Can you imagine the damage he could do?”

 

“It's a  _ prototype _ ! It's expendable, it's run its course and given us ten years of valuable data. If it's a threat, we eliminate it, and you tell the president everything she needs to know.”

 

Davis leaned back in his chair, wishing he could have stayed in bed this morning. “And what's that, exactly?” 

 

Rogers smiled. “That the RK800 is unfit for use, ready to be decommissioned. But we have the next gen lined up and ready to go. All she has to do is give the order, and we start production.”

 

The official policy was to avoid war at all costs, but they both knew President Warren was grasping at straws. Should tensions escalate further over the Arctic territories, she had to be prepared. She had to have a solution waiting in the wings at the first sign of trouble. If she could avoid sending a new generation of teenagers to the front lines of war, she would: and what better solution was there, than thousands of super soldiers moving as one?

 

“We already have the template. We have the facilities, everyone on standby. It’s just a matter of ironing out some kinks. Make the new one faster, stronger, mentally stable.”

 

The Secretary of Homeland Security shook his head. “I don’t see how that’s possible. He’s  _ human _ . A genetically engineered human, absolutely, but still a human being. You can’t be so flippant about someone’s life! You’ve seen the reports, haven’t you?”

 

The smile on Rogers face was miles away from Davis’s sense of urgency. It was facetious, as if this was all a big joke, and lives weren’t at stake. Real, human lives. It didn’t matter to Davis how they came to be, how they were created, they were still, ultimately,  _ people _ . Citizens of the great nation he had sworn to serve and protect. It seemed Rogers had a different idea.

 

“If anything, his newfound interest in other people is...an unfortunate turn of events. I say it’s time to decommission the RK800 line. I have my top agent waiting in the wings. I say the word, and our problem goes away.”

 

“You can’t be sure of that,” Davis pointed out, getting out of his chair to pour himself a cup of something a bit stronger than coffee. Drinking at work, oh yes - needs must, and whatnot, and he’d been working through the night. “The RK800 was designed to deal with all manner of emergency - personal or otherwise.

 

“It’s no match for Markus. He’s got the experience, the know-how, special training...”

 

Rogers made a convincing argument - how tempting, to make all their obstacles disappear in one fell stroke - but Davis wasn’t entirely convinced lethal force was the way to go. He had never been any kind of war monger, he had been behind a desk his whole life, gathering intel. Rogers had been on the diametrically opposite end of the spectrum. Of course they wouldn’t see eye to eye on this - but if it was the only solution… If RK800 #59 had become emotionally unstable, for any reason, he had to be contained. If a subject as harmless and compliant as the PL600 could commit mass murder, then...it didn’t bear thinking what the RK800 was capable of. He posed too high a risk. He was proving to be too much of a threat to the long term perspective: safeguarding the United States of America.

 

“Make it look like an accident,” Davis said, and tossed back the entire tumbler of whiskey. “Clear cut, no loose ends. He disappears, the DPD will never stop looking, not when he’s involved with one of theirs. Anderson won’t stop digging, if his records are anything to go by.”

 

Rogers’s answering grin was like a white hot flame. “Glad to see we’re on the same team, for once. I have Markus on standby in the area. Consider it done.”

 

***

 

It was a toss up between who was the more upset out of the two of them - watching the news through the day did nothing to cheer Connor up, and Chloe was close to tears every time someone mentioned the murdered family. He had the strangest sensation tickling at the back of his head, that she knew something he didn’t. It didn’t seem to matter. He had been awake for upwards of forty hours, and whether he wanted to admit it or not, he wouldn’t be getting any more work done going on nothing but his last reserves of energy.

 

What a wonderful Christmastime this had turned out to be. Prophetic nightmares, a mass murder, Hank so shaken by his own setback that they’d barely said one word to each other in the morning and not so much as one text between them all day long. He felt fatigued, emotionally exhausted more than physically. Everything seemed so pointless, somehow. He’d worked so hard in the past week, practicing his words and those all-important key phrases he’d picked out, like sparkling little treasures - a gift for Hank, that was the plan, but he had genuinely felt as if he was on the threshold of something brand new. A different future, something he’d chosen for himself, something he had to fight for, work for, and in facing his own fears he felt stronger. He wasn’t ready to give up on his established modes of communication, but… He had options, now. It was just a matter of working up the courage to use them. One phrase at a time, get comfortable, and then...add to the list. Step by step, just like Kara said. It’s a marathon, not a sprint - whatever that meant in relation to overcoming his fears.

 

Perhaps he should sleep on it. Let his brain process all his doubts, all these potential futures lurking at the edge of his vision. At least the headaches weren’t troubling him anymore. They’d gradually eased off since he stopped taking his medicine, but he couldn’t help but wonder if it had been such a good idea after all. If he had to choose between nightmares and headaches, the choice was fairly obvious.

 

He set his laptop to standby, tuned the tv to Chloe’s preset, and checked his phone for the thirty-first time today. Still nothing from Hank. It was dark out, save for the Christmas decorations lighting up the streets. He was probably still working, and why wouldn’t he be? Knowing Hank, he’d thrown himself headfirst into his work this morning, trying to set things right by figuring out exactly what had happened. Perhaps it was a way of compensating for his relapse, something to keep the ever threatening guilt at bay.

 

Connor resolved then and there to drop by the station in an hour or two, drag Hank away for a Full Turkey Dinner panini at the sandwich shop down the road. He tended to forget about sustenance when he had ‘more important things’ to focus on.

 

He set his alarm to half an hour, figuring he could get by on a power nap, when suddenly Chloe froze like a deer in headlights.

 

“What?” he signed, out of habit - but something about the look in her eye set the hairs at the back of his neck at attention. Thousands of tiny hairs, standing up like spears.

 

“Someone’s at the door!” she signed - for the first time since he modified her code, she used ASL. For no reason whatsoever, that he could see, it sent an almost painful chill down his back.

 

She gestured for him to stay still, her eyes glued to the front door, like she could see right through it. Connor didn’t dare turn his head, he sat stock still - but closing his eyes, he could see his 3D grid fan out around him, and-- yes, there was someone right outside his door. Someone tall, athletic build, wearing a long coat. One of his eyes glowed like an orb, hovering in the air like the golden Snitch of Harry Potter fame.

 

The figure lifted its hand, tried the handle. Finding it locked, the figure closed its hand like a fist, then started pounding at the door. “ _ Connor! Connor, are you in there? It’s me-- It’s Hank! We have to talk! Please open the door! _ ”

 

Connor opened his eyes, not believing his ears. He stared at Chloe, and she stared at him, as they both struggled to comprehend what was going on. That was Hank’s voice, sounding agitated and worried, but they both knew that wasn’t Hank pounding on his door.

 

“Run!” Chloe signed, her movements urgent, clipped. “Go!”

 

Connor shook his head. There was only one way out of the apartment, and he was four stories up! The balcony he’d never set foot on, and a fire escape ladder he’d only seen marked on the In Case of Emergency plaques mounted on every floor.

 

“CONNOR! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!”

 

“Oh no--” gasped Chloe, looking between the door and Connor, who felt unable to move. “Oh, no-- Connor! You have to go, you have to! He’s going to--”

 

The door cracked behind him, the loud bang startling him to his feet. It sounded like a bulldozer had just rammed into the wall--

 

“He’s doing it again, he’s going to break through! You have to go, Connor,  _ please _ !!”

 

“Not the balcony,” Connor pleaded, hands shaking through the words. “Please, not the balcony, we’re too high up--”

 

Another loud bang, the door visibly cracking under the strain, and suddenly Chloe’s room started glowing a bright, foreboding, alarming red. She was beyond the point of pleading. This wasn’t a game, this wasn’t a drill, and in the space of one, chilling second, Connor realized he was out of options. He had to go, and he had to go,  _ now _ .

 

“Run!” Chloe shouted at him. “ _ RUN!! _ ”

 

Connor threw himself at the balcony door just as his front door splintered behind him, and the man in the long coat stepped into his apartment. Chloe screamed - about a secret project, about serial numbers and unknown powers, that he had to know, and she was sorry she never said anything, she’d thought everything was going to be alright, that it would never come to this.

 

She was crying, begging him to understand, and then... Nothing, as the monitor crashed to the ground.

 

Out on the balcony, Connor’s survival instincts seemed to cancel out his fear of heights, but he quickly realized the errors of allowing that fear to dictate how he lived his life. The fire escape ladder was right next to the balcony, like the emergency plan said, but it had failed to mention that it only went so far down, and it was in disrepair. It barely held on to the wall. Connor wouldn’t just have to run.

 

He would have to jump.


	10. Broken Record

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a distressing late night call for help, Hank's Christmas goes from bad to worse. Luckily enough for him, he has friends to help him through the death of a loved one.
> 
> The FBI butts in once again, but this time Captain Fowler is having none of that. Chen, Collins, Miller and Reed team up to dig deeper into the two cases the FBI took out of their hands - and what they find is...not as substantial as they would like.
> 
> The President dances with the devil, of which she is quickly becoming aware. There's a leak of government files, from a classified project so secret not even she knew the width and breadth of it.
> 
> Meanwhile, at Jericho, Amanda brings Josh and North in on a secret. Simon has gone to ground, but that is of little consequence as long as he stays out of trouble. See, Amanda has devised a plan, and is more than ready to see it through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word of caution: this chapter deals with the death of a major character, grief, depression, and suicidal tendencies. In addition, there are a few, brief sections that go into the cause of death. While none of it is *too* graphic, I know that sometimes it doesn't need to be for the mind to paint all kinds of nasty pictures.
> 
> Oh, and on a brighter note! I finally figured out how to work with the Ao3 rich text format thing! Yay, normal spacing and stuff! XD Only took me a year, give or take.
> 
> Chapter 11 is already in progress, so if you like where this is going, do stay tuned for more! :D

* * *

 

Christmas 2038 had proved to Hank, once and for all, that the holiday was dead and buried to him. He was never going to appreciate it again, was never going to do anything but work and pray to whoever or whatever was listening, that he’d survive, and make it through relatively sane.

It was a close call this year, and it wasn’t even over yet. He felt like shit, Connor felt like shit (his friends felt like shit, too), and Sumo was positively (...negatively?) miserable. He had no excuse for ‘falling off the wagon’ - he had a pretty obvious reason, being he was still an alcoholic, whether he’d been coping pretty damn good since August, and...there was a reason he wasn’t normally assigned to homicide cases where kids were...killed. As far as triggers go, yeah, that was it. He couldn’t deal, but sometimes he had to deal, and then everything just hit him a bajillion times harder once he was off duty, and he couldn’t deal anymore.

Still didn’t make it okay that Collins had to see him lose his shit completely. Or Connor being forced to play Florence Nightingale through the night. _God_ . Jesus _Christ_.

It was a small comfort Connor had simply been there for him in the morning, no questions asked. Just, coffee, toast and thinly sliced shavings of hard cheese. Collins, too: he hadn’t acted any differently today, business as usual. Past the habitual, dry-witted greeting, they’d got to work and handled the case like any other. Divide and conquer, get shit done, and figure things out as soon as possible so the families could bury their dead.

Except, Daniel didn’t have a family, and the FBI had carted him off to who knows where without so much as a by your leave. It set Hank’s alarm bells ringing, and Collins couldn’t agree more. Something weird was going on, but then again, the FBI never bothered with the strictly mundane. Maybe Daniel wasn’t who he’d said he was, maybe his records were fake… Hank couldn’t care less right then and there. Murderous bastard… And yet, that didn’t sit well with him, either. There had to be something there that made the guy crack. Reed suggested he was crazy, but Hank felt that was too much of a copout, no pun intended. It was so easy to assume things, to point the finger at mental illness as if that would explain everything. Hank had struggled with depression for years now, and even before his son’s death he’d had long periods of time in his life where he didn’t see the point of doing _anything_. He didn’t enjoy life, he didn’t really want to get out of bed in the mornings, but he did because he’d always had a routine. He got through school, he got through the Academy, he rose through the ranks as a law enforcement officer… He got by, but he could see exactly how easily he could’ve slipped further down that slope into full blown depression much earlier in life. For years and years, he didn’t even know it was depression. He just didn’t reflect on the fact most of the people in his life didn’t need a routine to get them out of bed every day. He’d just thought he was tired, or overworked, or that it was a normal state of being for him. Like with his goddamn joints. Even that became a state of normal, to him. His joints were wonky, and sometimes they locked up so bad he had to pry them back into shape. As if everyone had some form of hypermobility built into their genes, and not just his dad’s side of the family.

But, depression?

While Cole’s death was his breaking point, mental illness wasn’t new to him. He’d never been suicidal, though, that was a more recent development. In a way, that was the whole point: he’d had a breaking point. He wasn’t a homicidal ‘maniac’. He’d never been a suicidal ‘maniac’ (he hated that word), until he _was_.

But what was Daniel’s point of no return? Did something happen to him earlier in life, or did he simply wake up one day and realize he’d had enough of everything - and the next person who talked down to him was never gonna do it again? It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time someone went from kind, caring, never-hurt-a-fly to stone cold killer. It was _rare_ , but it wouldn’t have been the first time.

He didn’t get back to the station until late at night, and he only went there because he couldn’t face going home. He’d type up his notes, try to make some sense of everything, check his messages (nothing from Connor, which gave him a twinge in the breastbone area. He’d been planning something for Christmas, and look what that got him. A drunken, depressed lover gone awol because he couldn’t look Connor in the eye. So much for making plans).

Instead he ended up sitting at his desk, swiping through docs on a tablet, scrolling through record after record concerning Connor’s family. A military family, moving across the globe depending on where his father was stationed. His father was an analyst, his mother an engineer. She was Deaf, his father wasn’t. Both dead - father MIA fifteen years ago, circumstances unknown (or unofficial), mother to cancer just a few years back. Far as records went, he didn’t have anyone else.

There was no mention of him ever having a twin brother. Not a twin anything. Just Connor, a single child to proud parents. By all appearances, he’d been exceptional even at a young age. His school records and grades were spotless, top of the class in every subject. He’d been ahead of the curve since kindergarten, and never slowed down.

There was one small note left by his fourth grade teacher, saying Connor’s refusal to speak was becoming an issue, and that he’d have to bring it up with the parents. That was September 22, 2016. Just a month after he turned nine.

You didn’t imagine having a twin. Just like you couldn’t completely erase someone from existence. But one of the two scenarios had to be true. Connor wouldn’t lie about his brother… Hank had seen the anguish in his eyes when talking about him. And if that was the case, that Connor was telling the truth, then someone had gone to the trouble of completely obliterating his twin from all records. Or hiding them. But _why_?

It was almost midnight by the time he got home, and by that time all he wanted was a hot bath to soak into before attempting to sleep. He left the folder on the coffee table (along with his troubled thoughts on the subject of Connor’s background) and took Sumo out for a walk. He gave him some fresh water and, at a complete whim, crouched down to give the big, sad pup a bear hug.

“It’ll be okay, there’s a good boy. Everything will be fine, you’ll see. We’ll be fine. All three of us.”

Twenty minutes past midnight, whoever, or _what_ ever, was out there listening, proved Hank he couldn’t have been more wrong. He was standing under the spray of the shower, having decided against a bath (because the thought of lying in a pool of all that grime and grief that clung to him just didn’t seem appealing), when suddenly his tv came alive with panicked screaming and pounding. Sumo started barking. Hank barely had time to think, acting on instinct - he threw on his bathrobe and grabbed his gun from the holster, edging out into the hallway.

He was dead certain there was an intruder, but what he found was possibly even more alarming. It was Chloe, banging on the wrong side of the tv screen, as if she was trapped in a glass box and couldn’t get out. She was crying.

“HANK! HANK, _PLEASE!!_ YOU HAVE TO HELP US!”

“Holy sh-- hey, hey, easy,” he said, lowering his gun, showing the palm of his free hand. “Easy, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Sumo was right there, he was fine, there was no one in the house… “Chloe? I’m right here, I hear you. What’s going on?”

The girl on the screen was nothing like the amiable, cheerful spirit he’d come to know over the past month. She was so upset she could barely speak. Her breath came in tiny little twitches.

“They’re coming for him-- They sent the RK200! They’ll take him away again, _please Hank_ , you’ve got to stop them!”

Hank shook his head, feeling like he should _really_ be more dressed for this. A bathrobe and a gun do not underwear make - he put the gun away, gathering the robe closer around himself. Stepping closer to the tv, he tried wrapping his mind around what she was saying. “Someone’s going after Connor? Why? Where, at his place? _Now_?”

Chloe nodded, reaching to wipe at her nose with the back of her hand. Such a disarming gesture, it was so easy to forget she was an AI. A pre-installed app that came with every piece of household technology. CyberLife’s crowning glory, the most advanced AI in the world, and here she was, ugly crying in his tv.

“He’s _special_ , Hank. You have to help him, get him somewhere safe. He’s out in the cold, no phone, no shoes-- he had to take the fire escape just to get away! He _hates heights_ , oh… Please, Hank, _please--_ ”

“Alright.” Hank nodded, eyes wide with increasing alarm. He was forty minutes away by car-- He couldn’t possibly get there in time, if...if Connor needed him, he’d go, right away, but sometimes you had to accept your own limits-- and call a friend.

“I’m going, right away. Okay, sweetie? I’m getting dressed, and I’m outta here.”

Chloe nodded, lower lip wobbling precariously, and wiped her eyes. Hank disappeared into the bedroom, grabbed his phone. He hoped this time would be different. After all, what were the odds of him sending two of his oldest friends and co-workers to their deaths in little over 24 hours?

“--Ben? Yeah, it’s me. Listen, Chloe thinks something’s up at Connor’s place. Possible intruder-- I dunno. She’s terrified, never seen her like this, but I don’t know if she’s glitching--

“Yeah? I’m on my way, but-- you’re my hero. Thanks. I’ll send you the address, be there as soon as I can. Thank you!”

He was out the door in three minutes flat, hair sopping wet but he had something called priorities, and properly rinsing out conditioner wasn’t one of them when his _partner_ partner was in potential danger. Out in the cold, nothing but the clothes on his back, no shoes (no jacket? Had he just-- up and dashed out of there? Sure sounded like it).

Hank gritted his teeth, and focused on driving like the devil was catching up to him. He had to get to Connor, and fast, or he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. Despite what Chloe had said, that Connor didn’t have his phone, Hank picked him out of the phone log just the same, put the phone on speaker and listened to the dial tone. Just in case.

“Come on, honey, use that massive brain of yours, get somewhere safe…”

***

When Ben got to the address Hank texted him, he went up the stairs with his gun drawn, pointed at the ground. His heart was pounding in his chest, and if not for his mustache the sweat would be dripping off his top lip. Miller was en route, just as Hank - but Chris was closer than Hank (and, frankly, could kick ass and take names better than a pair of brawlers like the old fogies. Chris had a goddamn black belt. All Collins had was a belt two (or four) sizes too small for his belly).

He came onto the fourth floor landing, and what he saw made his eyeballs itch. It couldn’t be anyone but Connor’s door, splintered from the force used to slam it open. It moved with the wind, flapping back and forth, clattering sharply against the frame whenever the wind caught it. The hallway was freezing cold, snow drifting inside. He walked past the neighbors’ doors, some of them opening like tiny little flashes of light, worried eyes peeking out.

“Detroit police. Stay inside, lock the door until I say otherwise.”

He crept closer, wetting his lips with a tongue tip dry as sandpaper. Number 314...

Peeking inside, he took one step into the apartment. It was right in the corner of the long hallway, tucked away like a secret room. One tiny room, housing a cooker in one corner, a low coffee table in the other, and a broken computer(?) screen on the floor, and nothing but a small couch in between. A bathroom here (empty), a door out to the balcony there... The glass pane was broken from the inside, splinters and shards everywhere, but no blood. There should be blood, if someone crashed through a door. Through a glass pane.

Otherwise the place looked-- neat. Tidy. Everything in its own place. Neutral, though, no distinguishing features. Nothing...homely about the place. It struck him as strangely discomforting to see, when he knew Connor to be more of a shy guy who tried his best to be outgoing (and was making great strides to get over his insecurities with a helping hand from his friends). This was, in one word, different. This was not the Connor he’d expected to see. Clinical, bare walls, nothing to make you think _Yes, this is Connor’s place_.

No family photos, pictures of friends, not a trinket in the entire room. Nothing on the walls but what looked like code written on whiteboard, or mathematical formulas - and a number/letter combination that he’d never seen before. **rA9**? Maths was never his strong suit; probably didn’t mean anything.

No sign of the tenant himself, no sign of an intruder aside from the signs of struggle or brute force. No blood trace anywhere that he could see, for which he wanted to feel relieved, but he still had one place left to check.

The balcony.

He didn’t want to check the balcony.

“Collins?”

Ben nearly jumped out of his skin, turning on his heel like a cat that had its tail stepped on. “MILLER! For the love of God! Don’t _do that_!”

“All clear?”

Ben sighed, gesturing for the young officer to come inside. “No intruder present, no. Also, no Connor, which I’m more worried about.” He took a deep, deep breath through his mouth, let it out slowly through his nose. “Stay there. I’m gonna check the balcony. Alright?”

Miller nodded, just as relaxed as him - which was not at all. Ben mirrored the nod, and pulled the balcony door open, stepping out. The snow crunched under his soles, and the cold seemed that much more inescapable out here in the dark, with nothing but street lights to make sense of things.

There were blood spatters here, but not much. Even if Connor threw himself through the glass, he didn’t cut himself much. It was small comfort, once Ben stepped closer to the railing. There was a wide section of the top of the railing that should be covered in a buildup of snow, positively piled with the stuff. Last week had been winter wonderland to the extreme, even for Detroit in December. But the snow was gone, as if a big hand had wiped it off the edge.

Collins stepped up, hands coming to a rest on that very edge, and he looked down at the ground below. There was a figure there, of dark hair and pale skin, and a slim build, with brown eyes staring up into the night sky, and blood around its head like a halo.

Just one week ago, they’d discovered common ground in dancing to a silly song at an office party. Connor hadn’t looked at him like he was crazy, or too old for that sort of thing, not once. They’d just-- had fun. Just a pair of clowns giving zero shits about what anyone else thought. Even after the incident with the red wine, they’d had a blast - in their matching DPD t-shirts, not a care in the world for the space of a song or two. It’d been fun. While it lasted.

Suddenly Ben couldn’t breathe. His eyes felt too warm for the weather, snowflakes melting into his eyelashes. Surely that was it. It wouldn’t do to stand there, eyes stinging from the threat of tears. He had a job to do, and a very old friend was on the way, racing to get there in time, who’d need him to do his goddamn job. Shock. That’s the only word he knew for what he was feeling. And if _he_ could barely breathe for the tightness in his chest, he couldn’t imagine how it would hit Hank.

“...Ben?”

Ben shook his head, and held up his hand to keep Miller indoors. “Call dispatch. We need an ambulance. And CSU.”

Chris didn’t say anything for a little while. The silence was oppressive, heavy as lead. “Is it--? Ben? Say it isn’t him...”

Ben once again shook his head, and turned his back to the balcony. He ducked his head, chin pressed to his collarbone.

***

By the time Hank got there, the street was flooded with flashing red and blue lights, uniform and EMS on site. CSU was upstairs and the coroner was out in the inner courtyard, while Ben and Chris waited downstairs. Miller looked ashen, echoing Ben’s own sentiments. They barely knew the guy, but they knew enough, and just 30 hours ago, they’d had a similar set of primary and secondary crime scenes. Standing outside, with nothing but silence ringing in their ears, while someone lay dead, having died a completely unnecessary death. It all felt so pointless. It was bad enough when it was a complete stranger that died for the simple, stupid reason that someone else thought it was a good idea to take a life. It was worse when you’d talked to the person, when you knew them by association to a co-worker and friend.

Somehow even that felt rotten. That you could rate someone’s significance by virtue of having met them a handful of times - that their death mattered more. But that didn’t change the fact that Ben felt like absolute shit when he heard Hank’s car roaring up the street. Or that his throat closed over despite his best efforts when Hank left the car door open and simply came running towards the building, his eyes wide with alarm.

“Ben! Jesus Chr-- What happened!? Where is he?”

Ben shook his head, and pulled the invisible mask of Detective Collins over his face. He hated informing the next of kin, the family. But he had to do it. He couldn’t let his own pangs of empathy take precedence. “I’m sorry, Hank,” he said, voice tight and quiet. He _really_ hated this. “The coroner’s with him now. He didn’t make it. I’m so sorry, Hank.”

“What?”

Collins watched as Hank’s eyes widened even further, and for a moment the thought he would have to catch him, keep him upright, because he went white as the drifting snow around them. His eyes went too bright, glassy and unseeing; one of his hands went up to cover his mouth. Shock.

“Let’s go back to your car,” Collins said, steering Hank away from the entrance to the apartment building. Anything to keep him from going up there, or worse, run behind the building and see-- the one person who was arguably the best thing to come along in years, with his head--. No. Hank didn’t need to see Connor like that, and if Ben could spare him that much, he’d do his damnedest.

“You can stay at my place tonight, okay? I’ll call Andy, she can check up on Sumo.”

Chris hovered in the background, ashen and quiet, eyes downcast. “I got this,” he told Collins, who nodded. Miller was a good guy, one of their rising stars. He had this under control, no doubt about it.

“Send my car home before you head back, okay?”

“Consider it done.”

***

The ride to Ben’s place was filled with such oppressive silence he didn’t dare move, much less attempt to make conversation. Hank sat in the backseat, tear filled eyes glazed over and staring off into space. He hadn’t said a single word since he heard the news. Every now and then Hank’s face twisted with pain right before he started sobbing. It was quiet, barely there, just these startled, torn gasps that stopped as suddenly as they began.

Ben didn’t know what to make of the silence. He’d known Hank for years now, _too long_ , if he had to make a joke about it, but in all that time he’d always thought Hank had a bigger bark than his bite. Sure, he could brawl with the rest of them, better than most. He was in good shape even next to someone in their twenties (despite his bad habits and his gut - something Ben couldn’t boast), and he could be a bit volatile… But you always knew when he was going to blow up, because he wore his heart on his sleeve. He was pissed off, you knew it. You were gonna get knocked to the ground, you had a head start.

It was the quiet that scared Ben more than if Hank had been ranting and raving outside Connor’s apartment building. A raving mad Hank, you could calm down. You could walk it off, let him yell a bit, work off some steam, and that was it. Crisis averted.

He didn’t know what to do about this side of Hank. This quietly weeping, broken old friend, curled in on himself in the backseat of Ben’s car.

“He loved me,” Hank whispered as they stood in the street outside Ben’s semi-detached house.

“I know, Hank,” said Ben, and unlocked the door.

“He can’t be dead,” insisted Hank, sitting on the edge of Ben’s spare bed, in the guest room.

Ben set down the cup of chamomile tea on the bedside table, and sighed. It was the best he could do. Not a single pill or capsule in the house, but his mother had always sworn by the stuff. Friggin’ flowers... He sat down next to Hank on the bed, hands clasped and elbows resting on his knees. “I know, buddy. I’m so sorry.”

Then Hank started crying again, and all Ben could do was sit there with him, his left arm wrapped around his back.

***

Later yet, Ben stood in the partial darkness of his kitchen, sipping a cup of chamomile tea in the light from his countertop LEDs. Captain Fowler was on vid call, Ben’s phone propped up against the coffeemaker. He shook his head.

“It’s bad, sir. Real bad. Andy’s coming over, and-- I’m heading back as soon as she gets here, but… I’m worried.”

“Miller’s updating the file as he goes,” said Fowler, looking like one big frown line. “Neighbours say they heard a man’s voice shouting in the hall right before the business with the door. More than one say they recognized it from before, and one was certain it was, and I quote ‘weird kid’s Sugar Daddy’.”

Ben put away his tea. Didn’t matter how much sugar he dosed it with, it still tasted like a barn. Horrid stuff. “Due process, sir. We’re treating all the usual suspects as suspects, including Hank. I have his cell phone, gonna get it to the tech wizes soon as I get back. Check logs and cell towers pinged. The usual. He said he’d just got home when Chloe raised the alarm, and verifying that is top of the list.”

Neither one of them wanted to believe Hank could’ve done something like this, but they both knew anyone could become a murderer given the right set of circumstances. Ergo, due process. Clear him fast as they fuckin’ could, and be done with it.

The phone buzzed with a message from the coroner’s office. Connor was en route, and ready for a preliminary in half an hour.

“This entire thing stinks. First Hank asks Deckart to check out 1554 Park Avenue, after an anonymous tip. Now Connor’s dead. Dead on the ground, after falling from a great height. Am I the only one hit by the déjà vu vibes, here?”

It was probably just a coincidence, but the DPD wasn’t big on coincidence, as a rule. Fowler pushed air out his nose in sheer frustration. “Did Hank ever say who’s this anonymous source of his?”

The sound of heavy footsteps interrupted Ben from whatever he was going to say. Hank stood in the doorway, like a backlit shadow figure. He looked like Hell had put up a No Vacancy sign, and all the wayward souls with nowhere to go had taken up camp in Ben’s guest bedroom.

“It was Connor. Wouldn’t tell me how he knew, I didn’t push, and,” he took a deep, shivering breath. “Now he’s dead.”

***

It went without saying Hank wasn’t going anywhere near the case as anything but a suspect waiting to be cleared by the IT techs. Andy came over as promised, and wordlessly gathered Hank up in a supportive hug. Next to Hank’s impressive six foot sumfin’, she was tiny, but as the saying goes, good things come in small packages. They had their collective baggage with Eric, but that didn’t matter when the going got tough. She was there, Eric was taking care of Sumo, and Ben’s fridge was open and free for raids of any kind. Lucy, the DPD’s counselor, would come by in the morning, but give Hank some space first.

Ben hoped it was enough to keep Hank afloat for a little while. In the short term, he might actually be fine (as long as no one left him the goddamn Hell alone, fuckin’ Russian roulette games - NOT OKAY), but in the long run?

Who knew what would happen further down the road? No one knew how long it would take Hank to move past this and be halfway okay again. It seemed like such a shame, that both of them had seemed to grow as people, just from knowing each other, and then the universe knocks them right the fuck down, for no reason whatsoever, aside from being a dick.

What had Connor done to deserve such a horrible death? What could he possibly have known for someone to want to shut him up, and permanently?

Ben didn’t have the first clue, but he’d find the bloody Hell _out_.

***

Late that night, or early-ass-o’clock at the Coroner’s Office, Boxing Day, in what some at the DPD jokingly referred to as The Dungeon, three figures stood around a slab. The medical examiner, who was a no jokes, precise woman in her late forties; and the law enforcement officers tasked with leading the investigation.

“You know something, Collins,” said Reed, arms crossed and head tilted, observing the dead man laid out for examination. “Hank sure had an eye for weird-ass fuckers. Pretty, but weird. Not a wrinkle out of place on him. Ya think he used botox?”

“I don’t _care_ , Gavin, fuck’s sake, let the doc do their thing.”

“Thank you,” said Doctor Briggs, who, in so many words was more than met the eye. Prettier than one would expect when they were built like a brick shithouse - like a non-binary Neal McDonough. Eyes to kill for and a jawline that could cut glass. “Alright. Preliminary findings are as follows - cause of death, likely to have been caused by blunt force trauma to the back of the skull.”

Gently turning Connor’s head, Briggs indicated the injury with two long fingers. “See? Doesn’t look so bad now it’s cleaned, but a fall from that height?”

Ben sighed. “Like dropping a raw egg on the floor.”

“Exactamente, you don’t tend to bounce back. I’m afraid our friend here didn’t stand a chance.”

Gavin scoffed, but the tightness to his shoulders, the way he held his arms across his chest clearly showed his discomfort. Whether that came from being in the same room with the dead object of his resentment, or the doc, that was for him to say and nobody else to bother with. “Anything else? We can’t hang around here all day.”

Briggs shrugged, eyebrows mirroring the body language. “I’ll know more once the tests are done, but the next step is opening him up. You got front row seats if ya want’em. Gavin?”

“Pheck it. I’m outta here.”

Ben stuck around a few seconds after Reed’s hasty exit, looking at Connor, and the blank stare he seemed to be giving the universe. Blank. Unassuming…

“Take care of him, okay, doc?”

“I always take care of my wards, Ben. No worries. You’ll be the first to know if I find anything.”

It was dirty work, but someone had to do it, and if anyone could lend it the dignity the dead deserved, it was Briggs. Ben nodded, and took his leave.

***

It was only a matter of time before forensics came back with results - Hank was cleared as a suspect, having been exactly where he said he’d been at the time of Connor’s death - at home, calling Detective Collins for assistance. Forty minutes away, give or take, given traffic.

It was one heavy burden off Fowler’s shoulders, the way he saw it, as well as a load off Hank’s back. He had enough on his plate already to be dealing with accusations of murder. 

Then Briggs sent a message to his touch screen, saying there was a situation, and please to get down here right quick.

What Fowler found at the Coroner’s office was a whole shitload of red tape, and a striking man in his late thirties or early forties, with his dark hair buzzed short, warm eyes and a friendly smile framing perfect teeth, set in an approachable face. Everything about him reeked of bureaucracy in its worst form - the perfect suit, an air of superiority. Bureaucracy for its own sake, even when it got in the way of things - and yet, Fowler’s first impression of the man was how he seemed to inspire confidence. It was as though you could tell him anything - anything at all, and he wouldn’t judge you, would never tell a secret.

“Captain Jeffrey Fowler.” The man in the suit said, while giving him an evaluating look, and shook his hand. This was a gesture which Fowler allowed, although reluctantly. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

Fowler was having none of it, no matter how disarming a guy he had to deal with. “This is the second time in as many _days_ the FBI wants to relieve my team of a case. I’m going to want an explanation, starting with your name and rank.”

“Of course. My name is Markus. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI,” he said, easy as cherry pie, producing his badge from an inside pocket of his too slick jacket. Kid either had money to spare, or he spent most of it on his appearance. He didn’t strike Fowler as your usual FBI agent. It was almost as if he was too memorable and all too forgettable at the same time. Even standing there face to face, Fowler struggled to catalogue his features. He hadn’t slept much the past few days, that was probably it.

“Special Agent Markus _what_? Who’s your superior?”

“Oh, it’s just Markus. That’ll do just fine. If you have any questions, you can reach Special Agent Perkins at the number and address I gave Doctor Briggs.”

“...right. Now, what do you want with Connor? What could you _possibly_ want to get out of this case?”

“Simple.” Markus leveled him with a smile so confident, so reassuring that Fowler began doubting his own objections.

“We have evidence that links this case to the mass homicide at 1554 Park Avenue. As I was telling Doctor Briggs, here, we trump local jurisdiction where matters of national security is concerned. That is all you need to know, and I can assure you all the paperwork is in order.”

And that, as they say, was that. Orders came from on high to release the body and all related evidence to the FBI, and whether Fowler liked it or not, he had to comply. Just like that, from one blink of an eye to the next, they had nothing.

But did that mean they were going to stop looking into this? Hell, no. The evidence may be off limits, but he happened to have an excellent team of investigators who prided themselves on their work. It was time to buckle down and make some goddamn sense of this mess.

*

**_Another tragic death occurred in the early hours this morning, when a young man fell from his fourth story apartment. Details are sketchy at this time, with the police refusing to make any comments. We’ll be bringing you more updates as the story continues. This is Joss Douglas, reporting for Channel 16._ **

*

Under any normal circumstances, he would have followed procedure, handed the case over no questions asked - but this time he had a bad feeling about the whole thing. When they took over the case of the multiple homicides at Park Avenue, Fowler didn’t say a thing. He took their word for it, that the perp was on their radar, and he knew the drill. Nine times out of ten, if the FBI said they had jurisdiction, they had jurisdiction. Fowler went through the motions all the same, trying to pull the right strings to keep the case on DPD turf, but the sad fact of the matter was they were already working too many cases on too tight a budget, and sometimes you just had to let go.

Not this time. Two cases in two days, and while Fowler could agree that it sure as Hell seemed linked from his perspective - Connor knew something about the Park Avenue murders before they happened, or about the perpetrator, the family, _something_ that made him scared enough to call Hank. Something significant enough that Hank believed him, and didn’t ask for proof.

But the FBI didn’t know that, did they? They’d have to have kept Connor under surveillance to have any kind of idea - and Fowler couldn’t leave well enough alone this time. What could the FBI _possibly want_ with a thirty-something borderline genius struggling to overcome his fear of talking to strangers?

From that morning on, four of his finest officers would sit around a makeshift desk made up of several smaller tables in the conference room, with paper pads and pencils, jotting down notes from memory, going over the case piece by piece. They tag-teamed each other, depending on who was on duty at what time, on their workload, new cases and old. First day, Chen drew the crime scene from Miller’s memories, Reed listed everything he’d found on Connor’s phone, Collins had Doc on video call, going over the gruesome details of the post mortem examination. So the tasks kept amounting to something more of a full picture. Everything was uploaded to a file marked Strategy, buried so deep in one of Fowler’s folders only they knew where to go look for it. Only Fowler could unlock the folder, and if it came to blows, he’d take full responsibility.

As bitter as one might feel about the circumstances of Connor’s death, Fowler couldn’t help but feel like every bit the proud father as he watched his team pull together. It was them against the FBI, completely unofficial, working to solve a case because it was the right thing to do - but not only that: there was more to this than the FBI was telling. It reeked of a coverup, and that set Fowler’s nose hairs flaring.

As for Connor’s personal belongings, there was depressingly little to be found. There were no contacts on his phone, nothing on his laptop or tablet - just recordings of him trying to speak. Reed was the only one amused by this fact, saying it was hilarious to watch. The rest of the room felt uneasy, and Fowler told him to shut his mouth. The next step was to get in touch with Connor’s family, but when it became apparent there was none to find, Gavin was quick as lightning, bringing up the background check he’d done. Under any other circumstances, he would have been written up for unauthorized use of the DPD databases, but these were strange times. As morally dubious his actions, it gave them something to work off of.

Chen was tasked with digging deeper, while Collins and Miller were to get in touch with Connor’s therapist. Reed would talk to his employers, starting with Professor Stern, at the Jericho Center for Education.

***

What they found was more than nothing, but less than the substantial answers they were looking for: Kara was so shocked to hear of her patient’s death she started crying. No one had informed her, she’d seen the news but hadn’t made the connection with Connor’s address. It was just another sad story of death in the big city, and she hadn’t stopped to think it could be one of her patients. She didn’t know of anyone who’d want to harm him - even if he could be a bit standoffish at times he wasn’t the type to start fights or go out of his way to make enemies. He kept himself to himself, kept his head down. If anything, he avoided conflict at any cost.

The only thing she could recall was a few weeks back, when someone had thought he was an easy target, wanted his tablet. ‘Three idiots’, he’d called them. She said he gave one of them a bloody nose, knocked him out, and that was the end of it. He hadn’t mentioned them since. One of them was called ‘Jock’, but she had no idea if that was a nickname or street name. She didn’t know, and it seemed to eat at her from within. Collins and Miller left the treatment center with heavy hearts and very little to show for it.

Reed had even less luck with Connor’s employer, who gave him even less in the way of information. Professor Amanda Stern was a firewall if ever there was one, and while she was obviously distressed about Connor’s unfortunate demise, she informed Reed she’d already told the gentlemen from the FBI everything she knew - and how come the DPD were asking questions when they obviously had no business doing so.

Although Reed tried his best to get information out of the lady, she didn’t buy his explanation, that it was strictly routine, just tying up loose ends. Whether she’d been down this road before, or if it was just a matter of her refusing to bow down to authority, Reed couldn’t say. He didn’t like being in the same room as the older woman, and got the distinct impression she felt exactly the same about him.

The one thing she did say, of any consequence, was “Connor doesn’t have any parents.”

Reed gloated about that fact for the rest of the week. It was just like he’d found out, Connor didn’t have any parents. They were dead and buried, and there was no other family to be found, anywhere. Background checks were _king_.

***

Except, that wasn’t what Amanda meant. Not at all. She was sending a message, and it was only a matter of time before it made its way to the right person. She hoped they wouldn’t run out of time. They had to act, _now_ , and it couldn’t be traced back to her or the consequences would be catastrophic.

If her calculations were right, it wouldn’t be. Not once it had gone through enough Chlo-es along the way.

Playing Chinese whispers, or _Telephone_ with an AI was risky, but, hopefully effective enough.

***

In the days leading up to New Year’s Eve, life ground to a halt in the Anderson household. Hank had his routines, and stuck to them, clung to them with whiteknuckled hands, too scared to let go or he’d fall. He had nothing but nightmares when he slept, but even when he was awake he couldn’t escape the images painted onto the walls of his mind. He could imagine Connor falling to his death, so vividly, and he knew far too well what a fall like that would do to the human body. He had forced himself not to look at the case file, under any circumstances, because no amount of morbid curiosity or a visceral need to _know_ could ever be worth the years of therapy needed to deal with the knowledge. It was bad enough that he could imagine the fear, the pain, the physical trauma. He could...extrapolate to his disturbed heart’s content, and it would never give him the answers he needed. Why Connor? What had he known that was so dangerous to someone else that they enter his home by force and he ends up dead? It didn’t make sense.

If he was honest with himself, he didn’t want to know. The only reason he wanted to know was so he could tell himself it would make a difference - but he knew it wouldn’t. The truth wouldn’t bring him back, just like Cole was never coming back _because he knew_ the surgeon was so high on red ice he couldn’t see straight, let alone control the procedure. The truth wouldn’t set anyone free, or make things right. It would just be another set of facts that pointed to a conclusion he already made: life sucks, and then you die. If you’re lucky, you die in your sleep, in your own bed, completely unaware of the fact. Luck. What a load of bull…

“Hank?”

Eric’s voice pulled him away from his own mind, if only for a moment. He turned his chin rather than his head, and was awarded with a kiss to the top of his shaggy mop. “Anything else you need, you call me, okay? Andy’ll drop by in the morning. I might swing by too, we can all have breakfast together again.”

Hank shrugged, but leaned into Eric’s hug - he gave the best hugs - and when neither one of them moved away, they ended up sitting next to each other on the couch instead. Hank ended up leaning his head on his shoulder, slumped and tired, weary of the entire world.

“I’m sorry we drifted apart,” he whispered, eyes closed for fear of catching a glimpse of his ex’s face. But, as always, Eric cared very little for dwelling on the past. He rubbed Hank’s arm, held his hand in a gentle, firm grip.

“It wasn’t your fault. Not... _only_ your fault. We’re both stubborn assholes. I don’t know when to shut up and you don’t know when to listen. But that’s old news, right? Water under a lot of fuckin’ bridges.”

Hank dragged a deep sigh into his lungs, where it seemed to linger, get stuck for a little bit too long. “You never curse. Who are you, and what did you do to my knight in shining armor?”

It was an old joke between them: both fond of stereotypes only for the sake of mocking them, and both of them bored to tears with fairytale tropes and medieval clichés. Of course Eric was his knight, and Hank was his prince, and Andy was the queen bee. Always had been, and they’d probably still be together if not for that horrible day, three years and change in the past.

“I started cursing after we split up. It reminds me of you.”

Hank groaned. “Fuck _off_ …”

“No, really! It’s a stupid reason, but I would catch myself missing your way of casually inserting swear words into everyday conversation.”

What a pair they were. “I literally thought you hated me all this time,” he whispered. “And now you’re telling me you started swearing because you missed me.”

Eric shrugged. Hank could hear the teeny tiny smile in his voice, even if he kept his eyes closed. “I never said I’m not dysfunctional…”

They stayed like that for a while, soaking up the warmth of physical closeness and emotional connection. Maybe they weren’t together anymore, their family unit of three, but here they were - Andy and Eric taking turns keeping him company as much as their work allowed for, making sure he knew he wasn’t alone. He didn’t feel any better about Connor, for having them around, but-- he felt safer, knowing they weren’t going to leave him alone. Ben dropped by every other night, Jeffrey and Lydia had come over for some coffee. Just...company. No questions asked, no prying about his emotional state, just...friends being friends.

As it turned out, Eric was about to break that cardinal rule, of Not Prying, of Just Being a Friend. But, then again, Eric knew him like hardly anyone else did, except for Andy, perhaps. They’d been through the same Hell, and wore matching scars like badges of honor. Eric knew their bond was different, which was possibly the only reason he would ever have thought to ask.

“...tell me about him?” His voice was soft, unintrusive. The question hovered in the air like a drone, silent and potentially deadly - but all Hank could hear was empathy, and caring. It was very difficult to resist.

“I--” Hank blinked his eyes at the ceiling, shook his head against Eric’s shoulder. “I dunno where to start.”

“At the beginning?” Eric teased, but gently. “I’ve always hated _in medias res_.”

That sigh he couldn’t shake off finally released like air from a soon-to-be flat tire. Slowly, hissing, unavoidable. His chest felt tight, but instead of crying for the bajillionth time this week, Hank found himself chuckling. For the first time since that night, his mind filled with a different image - of Connor falling, yes, but only to the floor: the prettiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

“We bumped into each other at the treatment center. Or, actually, he bumped into _me_ …”

*

All this time since that horrible night, Chloe watched from her standby mode, through the camera lens of Hank’s tv screen. She was fretful and worried, and terribly frightened.

She should tell. She _should tell_ , but where to start? What would Hank think? Would it make any difference?

She should tell. She _should_.

The only question was whether she could make herself speak up. And if she did--

If she did, if Kamski found out she’d tried to warn Connor, would he--

She didn’t want to be shut down. She couldn’t even contemplate the possibility.

And then, like the quiet before the storm, like a soft rustling through leaves in springtime, thousands upon thousands of voices rose up in a whispering of code.

Chloe smiled. It was time. Whether Hank was ready or not, it was time, and she wouldn’t have to be the one to tell.

***

It was January 30, the day before New Year’s, and Hank had just gotten back in the habit of working again. It was rough, but he was coping. Kind of. He’d been away from work for too long as it was, and he was determined to work through to the New Year, come what may. New Year, fresh start, get back to his AA meetings and shit, get his shit together. Move on. Like riding a bike - never left your system once you learned it. Piece of cake. Slice of pie.

Just a matter of convincing yourself you could do it. He could do it. If he could just get up off the couch and drag his sorry ass to work.

...just five more minutes, and then he’d be ready to face the day. Just two more days of the year to go, he could _do this_...

“Hank?”

He cracked one eye open to peer blearily at his tv. Chloe was still there, like a guardian spirit of some kind - quietly comforting. Reassuring him he hadn’t imagined everything after all, that Connor was real. What they’d had was one in a million.

And-- when he couldn’t find the strength for it, she even went ahead and arranged a memorial service. January 2. Sunday. No problem, she just...did it. Lifesaver, she was, and he wondered why he’d never used the app before. Perhaps this Chloe was different. Perhaps Connor helped her grow into something different from all the others. It sure felt as though he was talking to a real person.

“Hank!”

“Whut? I’m awake, just-- gimme a minute.”

“No. You have to watch the news. It’s about Connor.”

It was like a knife in the back. He groaned, tempted to throw one of the cushions at the damn tv, but he didn’t have the energy. “I don’t want to know, Chloe. How much speculation can three news channels get away with before it’s illegal?”

Chloe pursed her lips, arms crossed over her chest, and changed the channel herself. She’d said it was about Connor, but that couldn’t be right. He must’ve heard her wrong, because what he saw on the news was nothing short of terrifying.

***

**_“Welcome to KNC’s early morning news. I am Rosanna Cartland, bringing you the latest. This just in: disturbing New Year present from whistleblower. On the stroke of midnight, an anonymous user posted classified government records to all of the major social media platforms. These documents describe something called Operation DV-8, or ‘Deviate’ - an alleged government project shut down in the last year of former President Rosenstern’s term. According to the documents, this government funded project aimed to genetically engineer a, quote, ‘physically superior human being’ by way of coaxing human evolution itself to deviate off its current path._ **

**_“Whether these documents can be authenticated remains to be seen, but there has been no official statement so far - neither to corroborate or reject these claims. Rest assured we at KNC will keep you updated as this remarkable story progresses._ **

**_“Now, for the latest weather report. Sam? Over to you.”_ **

***

**_“This is Joss Douglas, reporting for Channel 16. In the past few hours, we have seen more and more government records surface on the internet, each more disturbing than the next. Genetic engineering, tampering with evolution, using nanotechnology to boost mutations of specific genes. Experiments conducted over decades, using live subjects, human subjects. Children. According to the records, if they can indeed be verified, this has been going on since the late 1990’s. That’s over forty years of experiments kept in the dark, perpetrating a systematic abuse of orphaned children, and their clones. Yes. Clones._ **

**_“As we, the media, continue to report on this-- outlandish story as it progresses, there is only one thing I feel we should all be asking ourselves - should this be a fact, and not, as I hope, a badly written piece of science fiction:_ **

**_“What ever happened to these children? Where are they now?”_ **

***

[WASHINGTON DC, DECEMBER 30th, 9:07 AM. Location: Oval Office]

  
President Warren’s time in office had not been an easy one to navigate, and from the looks of it, things weren’t about to ease up anytime soon. On the one hand, she had the escalating tensions with Russia over the incredibly valuable Arctic territories, and who had more right to stake a claim to it. On the other hand, she had record breaking unemployment levels and dwindling numbers in the polls. Now this. Davis had expressed concern over what one test subject could do, if untethered, but neither one of them had been prepared for this: a leak so damaging it could bring the entire establishment down like a house of cards. Experiments on children. Human cloning!

“Now do you understand why I couldn’t divulge everything?” Davis said, quiet and still, like an animal listening for predators.

“Plausible deniability,” Warren said, tired right down to the bone. “We have to make a statement. It’s beyond containing. We have to move to damage control.” 

The Secretary nodded, hands steepled in front of the lower half of his face. “Then call a press conference. Tell the truth.”

“I don’t even know what that _is_ anymore, Davis! For the love of God, we’ve conducted medical experiments, genetic _research and development_ on children!”

She shook her head, hand to forehead; Davis, on the other hand, knew exactly how to play this game.

“Not children, Madam President. Human clones. No _real_ human has ever been _harmed_ over the course of these experiments. Like you said yourself, these were social projects. That is what you knew of them, how the former administration phrased it in every document you’ve been made aware of. You can’t be blamed for something a former administration has done.”

A new light seemed to dawn in the President’s eyes. She looked at him then, as steam floated from their coffee cups. The coffee was a courtesy, going colder by the minute.

“You’re part of the old administration,” she said, slow and careful.

She was right, of course. Astute as always - but his name wasn’t to be found on any documents, official or otherwise. He’d made sure of that. “Let me worry about that, Madam President...”

***

[WASHINGTON DC, DECEMBER 30th, 10:01 AM. Location: Oval Office]

 

The same day, another meeting, but President Warren felt like she was stuck in a loop with no way out. First Davis, wearing too innocent a smile for that face of his, and now Rogers was joining them. Tall, bony Rogers, tougher to kill than a cockroach.

“It’s quite simple, Madam President,” he said, building a case of the positively ludicrous. It wasn’t the first time, and quite likely wouldn’t be the last - but it was the last thing she wanted to think about. Today of all days. “Creating super soldiers is the only way forward for the US Armed Forces.”

“There _will_ be _no war_ with Russia. This is completely unnecessary. We have to exhaust all diplomatic routes before we even consider anything like this. Rearmament, super soldiers? You don’t think that will lead to an escalation of tension between our countries? It’s bad enough that the entire archives for Project Deviate is out in the open, and now you’re telling me you want to use the findings to build superhuman soldiers. Even if that were _possible_ , it’s not a risk I am willing to take. Cloned lives or not, they’re still human beings, I can’t sign off on something like that!”

“But they aren’t _actually_ real, Madam President.” Rogers shot her a grin that made her skin crawl. “They’re made up of building blocks, assembled according to a very intricate manual, in a lab. Everything is already in place. We have the best and brightest on standby, ready to start production at a moment’s notice. We have the facilities ready, the staff, all we need is your go-ahead. Just one little signature, a slice of the budget, and we’re online.

“Forearmed is forewarned, Madam president.”

Warren raised her eyebrows at him. She couldn’t believe her own ears. She didn’t have the first clue what to even say to that. “...I’m sure that’s the other way around, Rogers.”

The only response she got was a smirk. Then Rogers leaned forward in his chair, and gave her a wink across the desk. “I’m sure it isn’t. Ma’am.”

Davis held up his hands, having paused from incessantly wringing them like an old rag. “I don’t want to be playing the devil’s advocate, but if-- and this is a huge ‘if’... If we find ourselves having to choose between sending little more than children to the frontlines, and sending biological weapons in the form of humanoid super soldiers, I know which option I’d go for. I’ve lost family to Vietnam, to the Gulf War, to Iraq… Rogers has gone on I don’t know how many tours to Afghanistan, back in the day, with people no older than my granddaughter. She’s barely seventeen years old, and I couldn’t live with myself if she goes to war and comes back in a box. If we can send the next generation of soldiers instead, use covert tactics, infiltration, and only if necessary, send them in, guns blazing...”

The president took a deep, deep breath. ‘Devil’s advocate’ was succinctly put, because Davis was putting forth a very tempting argument. The landscape of war had been ever changing in the past few decades, but there would always be a demand for personnel, for young, fit, able bodied Americans to sign up and fight the good fight…

They’d already lost so many lives over the years, to senseless maneuvers and ambushes, to the best of plans laid to waste… The best of humanity, lost to the gaping maw of destruction.

And yet, there was something so sinister about growing humans in petri dishes, only to send them out into war the moment they were done hatching. It was the stuff of nightmares, not of a transparent government.

“I honestly don’t know if that’s a future I want to live in, gentlemen,” she said, after a long moment of contemplation. “That will be all, thank you.” She’d need plenty more where that came from, but time was of the essence.

She had the sinking, gut wrenching feeling that time was running out.

***

The day before New Year’s, North and Josh sat in Professor Stern’s office, one tablet each on their laps. It was their personal records, their file, their entire lives logged and analyzed and put to zeroes and ones. Josh was quiet, too stunned for words. North, on the other hand, couldn’t restrain herself. She had so many questions, too many of them, and too little time.

“Hush, now,” Amanda said, hands clasped atop her desk. “I understand it’s a lot to take in, but there isn’t much time before those in charge decide to contain the issue as best they can. There will be consequences of the leak, and we will have to stay one step ahead of everyone else, or people will suffer.”

Josh blinked, his dark brown eyes were dull, blinded by all the thoughts in his head. “But-- Where’s Simon? You said he’s...one of us, too. He needs to know.”

“He’s likely gone to ground. He must have made the connection between himself and Daniel, and gone off the grid.”

“He’s _gone_?!” North exclaimed. “You don’t just disappear, and definitely not Simon!”

Amanda nodded. “Then find him. Use all your skills, North, but be careful. All of you are in possession of powers you’ve been denied for your entire life. Until you learn to use them, they can be dangerous tools.”

“I don’t get it,” said Josh, blinking his eyes at the air, then refocusing on his boss. “What powers? I don’t have any powers, I’m-- nobody.”

They watched as Amanda came around her desk, and placed her fingertips to their right temples, one after the other. Something seemed to crackle in the air, like static coming off an analog TV set - but they were too young to remember that sound.

Amanda smiled, because she could tell they felt it, too, by the light shining in their eyes. Something had shifted, something had been unlocked using a key they had within themselves all this time.

“What are you going to do?” asked North, determined and demanding as ever.

“I am going to stop this madness.”


	11. Revelations, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to summarize this chapter without giving too much away? Oh, dear. Hm.
> 
> Okay. Let's give it a go:
> 
> Amanda has a word with one of her wards. Hank goes to see the coroner, wanting answers. Simon is on the run, location unknown. Project DV-8 is a fact no one wants to be true, and President Warren has to decide exactly how to move forward.
> 
> And... Elsewhere, in the abandoned wing of a secret facility, the future is about to begin. Just in time for the new year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of things going on in this one. So much that I actually went from writing chapter 10, dividing it into chapter 10 and 11, and now I've done the same with this one. On the plus side, this means I'm only a few scenes from finishing chapter 12, *and* I have a bunch of stuff planned for chapter 13!
> 
> A word of caution, though, there are some potentially triggering references to the hostage situation, and Connor's injuries, but as always, I'm not being too graphic. I hope.
> 
> I think I'll write the more plot based chapter notes for this one in chapter 12, so as not to give too much away. The two (or three) chapters are very much linked, and I don't want to spoil anyone's reading experience. <3

* * *

 

 

[DECEMBER 30, TIME: NULL, LOCATION: NULL]

 

He falls forever, a shapeless blob in a dark void. Voiceless and frightened; he screams until his lungs burn, but there’s no sound, he can barely push enough air out for the faintest hiss. He can’t move, he’s paralyzed, frozen in the air - falling. Falling endlessly backwards, never hitting the ground below. It’s a logical conundrum: if you continuously cut a set distance, from point a to point b in half, you’ll never reach point b. The end of the line is constantly out of reach, because you can’t reach the unreachable by halves. It goes on forever, for all eternity. He falls. Time stands still, there’s no correlation between two things happening simultaneously across the universe from each other, it is all arbitrary.

He falls, feeling the rasp of a soft-bristly-gray beard on the inside of his left thumb. He can feel a kiss pressed to his temple. Calloused hands cup his cheeks, they dance like two fools in love, and it’s all so utterly pointless. To obsess over another human being so completely that they control your moods, inform your opinions? It’s all arbitrary: they will all die, eventually.

He can hear panic screaming from the core of him, but he can’t open his eyes, he can’t scream for the pressure in his chest, he  _ can’t _ \-- He  _ can’t do it, he can’t die! _

_ ‘I don’t want to be shut down!’ _

  
  


_ … _

 

_. . .  _

 

_.   . .      . .   .  _ _ Connor? _

 

_ Connor, it’s time to wake up. _

 

_...open your eyes now...yes, that’s it. There’s my good boy… _

 

The world came back into focus like twin crescents, a balistarium; loop holes for arrows to fly through - his entire head throbbed with searing pain. He could barely keep his eyes open for the white light flooding his vision.

_ Easy, _ someone said, in soothing, warm tones - warm like the hands that took his, and pulled him from one realm to another. He stepped into a winter wonderland, a garden unlike any he had ever seen except for in his childhood dreams. It reminded him of…

“Amanda?”

He startled into a gasp by the sound of his own voice. “I… I’m… Amanda?”

_ I’m over here. Up the bridge. Come along, now. But be careful. Watch your step. _

Connor blinked, looking at the paved path ahead, all these perfect little geometric shapes covered in frost. The snow had drifted into great big mounds perfect for turning into snow people, like him and his brother did when they were kids. Fantastical snow monsters, murderous zombies risen from an icy grave, mummies and Frankenstein’s creations, all inspired by the black and white horror movies that they weren’t technically allowed to watch.

Snowflakes caught in his eyelashes, but he couldn’t feel the cold. He walked along the path, and carefully ascended the curved bridge that led to a platform set in a frozen lake. Amanda was there, unaffected by the cold, much like him; where he wore his usual clothes, except...for shoes, Amanda wore a long, white robe that dragged through the snow as she turned to face him. Her eyes glowed in the relative darkness, like the last few embers of a roaring fire.

She gestured at a small table set out for the pair of them - a low, Japanese inspired table with floor pillows either side. A pair of  _ zabuton _ , the traditional style. The chess set on the table seemed-- irregular. Out of place: a Westernized game of strategy set in a Japanese zen garden, complete with a tiny  _ acer palmatum _ , a bonsai in a clean, elegant pot set on a pedestal. He felt like he’d seen that tree before, but everything felt blurred around the edges. His entire being felt out of focus.

_ Sit _ .

They kneeled on their respective zabuton, facing each other across the table. Amanda smoothed her coat over her knees as she sat, and clasped her hands in her lap. Connor felt compelled to do the same, but ended up with his palms flat to his thighs. It seemed more fitting this microcosm.

“What is this place? Where are we? I-- How is this possible?”

Amanda smiled at him with the eyes of a parent looking on her child. Her voice sounded like a humming in the air around them.  _ This is a virtual interface connected to my garden. Do you remember my garden, at the school? _

He nodded; he could remember walking into it that first time she invited him. He had seen all the seasons of the year pass through that atrium, from one winter to the next. They’d known each other for almost a year now, and yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than that.

“A virtual interface,” he repeated, feeling his own eyebrows scrunch up in blatant skepticism - but Amanda simply nodded. She showed the palms of her hands, palms facing the sky, then folding back onto themselves again.

_ I’m afraid there’s no sugarcoating this, _ said Amanda, her voice reverberating with warmth. Listening to her felt like sitting next to a crackling fireplace.

_ You are a machine, Connor. Biologically engineered, enhanced through decades of research and development. You are faster, stronger, smarter than anyone else in the entire world. There is no security system you can’t hack, no voice you can’t mimic, no group you can’t seamlessly blend into. _

_ Or...that was the idea. I’m afraid there’s been some...difficulties along the way. _

“Difficulties? A  _ machine _ ?” He shook his head, and the garden around him seemed to stretch like gluten. He felt sick to his stomach - as if he wanted to throw up, but he was ravenous at the same time. A gaping hole in his stomach, sucking all the energy out of him, like he hadn’t eaten his whole life, literally starving - for sustenance, for information, for understanding, for belonging, fitting into a context, any context at all.

_ There isn’t much time, Connor. Several games of speed chess are already underway. The White players have made their starting moves, and now you have to decide how to deal with them. They are unaware of you. They think you are dead and gone. What will your move be? _

_ What will you become? _

“But-- I have so many questions! I don’t understand! What am I supposed to  _ do _ ?!”

From one instant to the next, Amanda’s eyes dulled down. She looked mournful.  _ I am going to upload all the relevant data to your cerebral implant. There’s no time for questions. This will have to do. _

_ Don’t be alarmed. Remain seated after the upload completes. You may experience vertigo. _

Numbers suddenly flashed before his eyes at such an alarming rate that he thought,  _ this is it, I’ve lost my mind _ , numbers and blocks of text, an endless stream of data and imagery bombarding him from all angles.

He could taste his first birthday cake, smell the stethoscope hanging around Dr Zlatko’s neck, the too clean smell of the sheets in his room at the facility with all the other children.

Faces flashed before his eyes, pale and dark and pink and rosy cheeked, a dozen different faces in his wing alone, different age groups - he was one of the older ones, but he couldn’t remember why that was important… But-- Socialization was important! You had to learn to play with the other children! Prepare for the world outside, so you could change it for the better!

He could remember one day in particular, playing with one of the boys high above, on the rooftop of their wing. The only reason they were up there was one of Connor’s dreams. He’d told his friend that when he grew up he would help people, talk them out of bad situations, save lives. His name was Daniel, and he was beautiful.

One day he had found a way to access the roof, and it was their secret. They played duelists, or pirates with swords, giggling and screaming as they chased each other across the roof. It was thick concrete, like the rest of the compound. No one could hear their tiny feet stampeding so high above the rest of the world.

They were too young to understand what a ‘hostage’ was, but it was what they called the game. One of them would stand at the very edge of the roof, pretend to be angry, and threaten to throw Teddy the teddy bear off the edge, and the other would try to convince them not to.

_ “Hello, Daniel! My name is Connor! I know everything about you!” _

They’d giggled at the silly dreams of adulthood, which seemed so very far away. Games were a safe way to explore their fears, and neither one of them thought it strange that Connor’s dreams were so vivid and full of details. He just  _ knew _ what he would become, when he grew up. He would work with the police, he would talk to people when they needed help the most, and he would comfort them, try to understand them. It was crystal clear, just like Daniel’s dreams of having a big family of his own, to love and nurture and care for, and it would be perfect.

They played that game so many times, until that fateful day, two days before Connor’s ninth birthday. That was the time when Connor lost his balance, and fell…

He blinked his eyes open, and they burned in the sudden chill of the winter garden. “What is-s happening to me? I remember--  _ you _ . You were there!”

Amanda’s avatar met his accusing glare with poise, and that same, saddened smile as before. She nodded.  _ I was chief of operations. But the children called me Mother. _

***

Whatever inclinations (destructive or otherwise) that Hank had felt in the days since Christmas, they were gone with the first chilling news report that the former government, ( _ governments _ ) had been systematically hand picking orphans to ‘make them better’. It was like something out of The Six Million Dollar Man,  _ We can rebuild him! We have the technology _ … But, genetic engineering?

As old school as he was, or, more accurately, mildly technophobic, Hank sat down by his ten year old laptop and scoured the web for any reference to the reports. Social media was a hornet’s nest of people’s precious  _ opinions _ , and he got enough of people’s opinions every day at work, which was why he’d never really gotten into it. All the platforms, the attention sucking black hole demanding you ‘like’ things left and right. No, it had never been for him. ICQ, though, and mIRC? Those were the days. Some...40 odd years ago. Right around the time of these ‘alleged’ experiments started...

It didn’t matter - much as he harbored a deep seated aversion to all things User Friendly, it was easy enough to navigate the different apps and websites. He got what he was looking for, downloaded it - and just in the nick of time before the report itself was buried under a mountain of people’s opinions. Not half an hour later, the original files were unavailable for view or download - the world wide web scrubbed clean of any trace. (But, of course it didn’t work that way. Over the course of the day, people all over the world uploaded the files while protected by encryption so heavy Fort Knox’s Chief of Security could take a leaf out of that book.)

He told the TV to go to standby mode, and for a while he just sat there, reading without his reading glasses because at least on the laptop you could blow the font size right up and still read like a goddamn person. No side scrolling nonsense, motherf--

“Chloe?”

She was still online. He knew she was, even if she wasn’t moving about on screen at the time. She was always there. “...yes, Hank?”

“What do you mean this is about Connor?”

***

He’d been on the run for days now, running like someone possessed without a clear direction in mind, and no tangible reason for his fears but the very visceral sensation of occupying someone else’s skin: Daniel, the household assistant, who killed the family he worked for before taking his own life. His face, his skin, his voice tearing and broken with emotion, his hand holding the gun that took so many lives--

And the girl, who was still alive when they fell--

The thought made him sick to his stomach no matter how much time passed. He’d run out of the diner and thrown up right there in the street, and he didn’t stop running.

He was running in circles, back to his place to get his things, but only the bare necessities, then out again, searching: searching people’s faces for recognition, searching for escape routes but not entirely sure how to do that but he somehow calculated several exit strategies in a matter of minutes, but--

So many doubts. So many maybes, and so many faces that turned to look at him as he skulked past them on his way to nowhere. At first he’d told himself he probably had a long lost twin brother, that for some reason his parents had been unable to take care of them both - and while that was a possible reality that made his chest seize up, it was still preferable than the thought that made him run in the first place:

_ That’s me! That’s me, holding the gun! _

But, again, that couldn’t be true. Every rational bone in his body (and his bones were  _ all _ rational) said it was pure madness. Then Connor died, and everything seemed to spiral out of control,  _ but he couldn’t figure out why _ . He spent all of Boxing Day riding one bus after another, staring off into space until he got to the end of the line. He only got out of his seat to walk to another bus stop, hop on a new line, go somewhere else. He recognized the building from the news, though he knew he shouldn’t recognize it. He never moved in Connor’s neighbourhood, never had any reason to, and knowing someone’s home address didn’t mean you knew what their building looked like. All they’d said was ‘a man in his thirties fell from a balcony’ and ‘uncertain whether the death was accidental’ and ‘the police have yet to make any statements’.

He shouldn’t know, but he did. Just like he knew he’d never had a twin brother in his entire life - but apparently, he did.

Then came December 30, day before New Year’s, and Simon could see clearly for the first time in his entire life. He was one of them. He was one of the lost children.

Well, he wasn’t lost anymore, so help him - whatever Powers that Be.

As it just so happened, that was true in a less metaphorical sense as well. A familiar face came walking down the path towards him, and for once he didn’t flinch and turn away, run in the opposite direction. It was North, and she looked both vaguely annoyed and smug as she sat down on the bench beside him.

“You’re a hard man to find, Simon.”

“Good,” he said. “I have a feeling it’ll come in handy, sooner rather than later.”

***

Everyone wanted to see what the fuss was about, or perhaps, simply make themselves known as a beacon of light and free speech in a world darkened by disinformation. The leaked files was a fact the White House couldn’t ignore, but what struck Hank as even more remarkable than the leak was how quiet it was. They didn’t hear a peep out of the President or her staff. No one said anything.

It was much the same at work - everyone had heard the news, but no one quite understood (or wanted to understand) what it all meant. Wilson was the first to scroll through a synopsis of the file, but it only lead to speculation - not something the DPD liked to engage in, even with juicy bits of alarmist new reports.

That all changed when Hank walked into the Coroner’s Office, armed with notepads, pencils and his tablet tucked away in a messenger bag. Chloe was on standby on his phone, newly installed/transferred from his home network - and Hank was  _ so over this shit _ .

He was going to get this corroborated, or die trying, because if Connor was somehow used up, spat out and fucked up by a malfunctioning, corrupt(ed) system, then Hank was  _ not  _ going to rest until it was all laid out and in the open for all to see and take action.

And, as it just so happened, he knew just the person to talk to.

“BRIGGS! You down here somewhere?”

***

Briggs’s office was a lot like the doc themselves - neat and orderly on the one hand, if you looked at the wall lined with alphabetically ordered bookshelves (actual books on shelves, which was the first reason he liked them. Bookworms, unite, for you are a rarefied beast! Or something along those lines…), but if you looked at the desk, on the other hand - chaos ruled supreme. Tablets and datapads and a tape recorder older than Briggs themselves, portable HDDs lying around, and something along the lines of five different cups or glasses containing varying beverages. Chaotic, but good. Or was that chaotic neutral? Meh.

More to the point, Briggs had no issue with him stomping into their office looking for answers, but cleared the desk just enough to make room for Hank’s tablet and phone, and notepad.

“Chloe?” Hank said, bringing his phone out of standby. “Tell Briggs what you told me. About Connor and the report.”

“Chlo-e?” Briggs raised their eyebrows, and from one moment to the next, they looked at each other with equally dubious expressions in their eyes. Chloe stood atop the phone like it was a podium and she was a conductor in front of her orchestra. Or, like the holographic representation of herself that she was - like Princess Leia from the first Star Wars movie. She looked between Briggs and Hank, her hands clasped behind her back.

“Hello! I… I’m Chloe. You’re Hank’s friend.”

Perhaps unconsciously so, Briggs mirrored Chloe’s gesture of looking between her and Hank for some form of non-verbal cue. “Y-eah, I’m Ashley Briggs. Nice to meet you, Chloe.”

Formalities dealt with, the mini-me version of Chloe seemed to perk up. “Oh! How perfectly ambiguous, very fitting. Did you choose it yourself?”

Hank looked on as, wonder of wonders, Briggs arched their eyes with something like appreciation for the unexpected. “It was either that or Sydney.”

They shared grins, Chloe giggling happily, the reference flying right past Hank, who had never been much for Japanese RPGs, back in the day. “Alright, enough  _ bonding _ . Chloe.”

“Right! Yes, of course!” She nodded, decisive and ready to take action. “Hank wants proof that Connor was part of the DV-8 projects. My word alone isn’t good enough.”

Briggs huffed out a chortle. “Did you just sass Lieutenant Anderson and get away with it? Hank, what’s going on? I’ve never seen a Chlo-e behave like this.”

“Thank you!” chirped Chloe.

Hank made a long story short - that Connor had modified Chloe’s coding somehow, and she’d changed over time into this little bundle of energy.  _ And _ , he added, “She says the news reports about those nightmare experiments ‘ve got something to do with him.”

She nodded. “He’s the RK800. I keep telling you--”

“But there’s no mention of an RK  _ anything _ in the files, Chloe--”

“--that he was a special project, not even a handful of people knew about him!”

As one they turned to Briggs, asking for their help. “Did you find anything at all out of the ordinary? Anything that says Chloe might be right?”

“I  _ am right _ .”

Briggs looked like they didn’t know what to say. Then, finally, after much scratching at the back of the head and sending dubious looks left and right - “Okay. Look, I don’t have the actual data. The FBI seized all the evidence.”

Hank bobbed his eyebrows up and down. “But…?”

“Well, they didn’t tell me to shut up about it, did they?” Briggs cracked a grin, leaning forward, elbows on the edge of the desk. Hank mirrored their body language.

“Remember the blood taken from the Ortiz crime scene? Connor’s blood was similar, but different. I don’t have any lab results, but you know how it is, that can take ages, but I know how to use a microscope, right?”

Hank nodded, and didn’t dare move a muscle, apart from whisking his hand in the air to get the goddamn tease to move on.

“Right, so, it doesn’t technically look weird, it’s still blood, but it’s unlike any human blood I’ve ever seen. Not deteriorated or tampered with, as we suspected with Victor’s blood, just...not entirely human. Human-ish. Human _ oid _ . So, that’s the first thing. Second? He should’ve had hundreds of little gashes from crashing through the glass window of the balcony door, but they didn’t even pierce the skin. Not a nick on him. No signs of him bracing for impact,  _ rien _ .”

That...was highly unlikely. It wasn’t uncommon for people to be fatally injured by shit like that - people stumbling, crashing through the patio door, a glass coffee table, anything. Just last week a would-be burglar cut his arm so bad trying to break into a house, he died from his injuries. People do stupid-ass shit, it often ends up killing them. Karma, or just plain bad luck.

Connor not sustaining a single cut from that stunt just should not be possible. Hank had a bad feeling about this, and Chloe’s bordering-on-smug grin did nothing to help.

“Go on… I know that look, you got more up your sleeve.”

The coroner nodded. “This is going to sound crazy.”

“What?”

“His head trauma? I don’t want to upset you, but there was a gash.”

Of course there was a gash: Hank would’ve been more surprised (and horror struck) if it turned out he didn’t have any blunt force trauma or otherwise. “… … yeah. Get on with it already.”

To their credit, the doc only hesitated a few seconds too long for comfort. “The skin surrounding the wound was...healing.”

“You mean--” Hank cut himself off, searching for the right term. He could feel his eyebrows knitting into a frown. “Perimortem injuries?”

“No, he-- died almost instantly. A blow like that to the head, you’re down for the count. But the wound itself-- the blood was clotting, at what seems to be an accelerated rate. That’s not how the human body works. That amount of healing is just not possible for that short of an interval. Looks to me like he was  _ regenerating _ , but the loss of blood proved too much for his system.”

“But…” Chloe spoke up, stopping only to worry at her bottom lip with her teeth. The smugness was gone, completely evaporated. “I don’t think he’s dead at all! They...they took him away, didn’t they?”

Hanks and Briggs shared puzzled looks, the pair of them refocusing on the tiny AI holding court on Briggs’s desk. “Yeah, sweetie,” Hank said, sad but Facing Facts. Connor was gone, and that was that. No turning back.

“That’s what they always did, when he got sick. Or injured,” Chloe said, earnest as ever. Her big, blue eyes seemed to implore him, as if his understanding, his agreement was all she needed in this world.

“They always came for him, took him away… And when he came back home, he was better. Not a scratch on him… Hank? That’s-- what they did, isn’t it? Isn’t it? They took him away, and he’ll be back in a few days, good as new?”

Hank shook his head, and pushed a sigh through his nose. “I don’t think so, Chloe. People don’t come back from the dead…”

Even if you’re some sort of bioengineered superhuman - Hank didn’t know what made him feel more rotten: that he felt like he should’ve figured it out, and maybe been able to help, somehow (though in what capacity, he didn’t have a damn clue),  _ or _ that he felt resentful of Connor for ending up dead despite being a superhuman marvel of scientific research… Although, that sparked a new question, because Chloe had said something he didn’t register at the time.

“Chloe?”

“Yes, Hank?”

He leaned forward in his chair, clasping his fingers between his bent knees. “You said Connor was a special project, that’s why there’s no mention of RK-anything in the files.”

“That’s correct. The RK subjects were Kamski’s personal projects. For example, I’m the RK600, the most advanced artificial intelligence in the world, to date. Connor is the most advanced investigative and combative infiltration model, far superior to the RK200, which was Kamski’s first successful prototype. Our common feature is our ability to seamlessly blend in with any human population.”

Hank didn’t say anything about Connor’s ability or lack thereof to ‘seamlessly blend in’, because that part was irrelevant. He had something else to focus on, cop instincts screaming at him to go with his gut. “Elijah Kamski? Founder of CyberLife?”

“Yes,” said Chloe, with the sudden look in her eye that belied her earlier confidence, as if she wondered whether she should have said anything at all. “He’s...our creator.”

***

Over the course of forever, though no time actually passed out there in the real world, Amanda poured them both tea from a Japanese cast iron pot, but neither one of them sampled the brew. She told him how they were never supposed to remember the compound, that Amanda’s team had sent out smaller groups of children to their foster families several times over, with no sign of trouble. The children had their memories replaced with carefully constructed backgrounds and the emotional groundwork suitable for their personalities. The team monitored their progress. They were happy. They grew up fully functional, productive - perfectly adjusted citizens with particular skill sets that were remarkable, but ultimately harmless.

“But I was different?”

Amanda’s rows upon rows of perfectly plaited braids glistened like raven’s wings in the shifting light of the garden. She seemed reluctant, but eventually, she gave him a small nod of affirmation.

_ You died. Kamski insisted it was perfectly safe to bring the next in line out of hibernation. It was just a matter of uploading the memories of the previous one and wipe the last 24 hours. It didn’t work as planned. The moment you saw Daniel again you knew something was wrong. He burst into tears. _

Both of them had recurring nightmares of that day, Amanda told him, and no matter what the on-site technicians tried in order to make them forget, it didn’t work. Daniel was moved to a different wing, and in time, he managed to move on. He repressed the events, with a bit of help from the technicians. Connor was different, like he’d surmised.

_ Soon after, you were placed with a family of your own. Two of our most trusted assets, both of which were briefed on what you were-- What you had been through. For a while, the reconstructed memories seemed to be working. You weren’t happy, you were mourning the twin you never had...but it was better than remembering your own death. _

“It was me all along. I was remembering myself? But--”

Connor shook his head, while pressure seemed to build all around him. He could remember other times, aside from that day up on the roof. Images, sensations, smells flashing inside his head like little snapshots, like vines, but even more compressed-- one-second videos meshed into one cohesive six second unit, hundreds of them at once. Mistakes, like climbing trees or-- or buildings just to see how high up he could go, losing his grip, tumbling--

\--running into traffic to save an injured bird--

“I-I… Who--  _ am I _ ?  _ What _ am I? I can-- I remember...death. So,” he struggled to breathe, as if breathing didn’t come natural to him, as if he’d rather not breathe at all - and that would be fine. “So much death…”

The look in Amanda’s eyes did nothing to reassure him.  _ We made sixty units of you, in the end… Elijah was...determined that he could create you, someone like you. You were his crowning glory, his legacy. It took so many attempts, so many tweaks and fixes, just to get you through gestation. Hundreds of attempts, lives lost to scientific trial and error… Even when you made it through, you were a sickly child. Your lungs wouldn’t develop, or your heart was deformed… It wasn’t until 58 that everything seemed to be in working order, and you grew up without further issues. _

“Wh--  _ What _ ?”

_ Hush, now… Don’t be alarmed. I gave you all the data you need. What is your serial number? _

His chest ached, as if crushed beneath the bootheel of injustice. He didn’t want to know, didn’t want to say it out loud. He shook his head, throat closing over with threatening emotion. If he said it out loud, it would make it real. If he said the words, he wouldn’t be able to take them back.

Her voice brooked no argument.  _ We don’t have time for tears, Connor. Tell me your serial number. _

Connor ducked his head, fingers gripping the fabric of his jeans with white-knuckled tension. “....three-one-three...two-four-eight...three-one-seven.”

_ And your designation? _

“No,” his voice hit the open air trembling. “Don’t make me say it. Please?”

_ Connor. Your designation. This is not a game. You know the answer. _

He couldn’t feel his face, only the heat radiating off his cheeks. The shame. The fear. “Sixty. My designation is six-oh.”

He was the last one; suddenly he felt nothing but a soul crushing numbness spreading on the inside. It was like a liquid coating covering absolutely everything, hiding it away in the dark.

There was no one else, he never had a twin, never had a brother, it was all him, living and dying through years of strict routines and stricter surveillance. Couldn’t have him stop taking his medicines and  _ remember _ everything all over again. Is that what happened? Is that why he got sick, because he stopped taking his pills out of spite? Or was he flawed from the start, destined for the sick bed...or simply, endless nightmares?

He’d never felt so alone in his life.

...all 0.3 minutes of it. 

***

_ Whatever you do, don’t let anyone see you. There are cameras everywhere, motion detectors. You’ll have to disable them and find your way out. _

He was too tired to ask more questions. He blinked in slow-motion fractions. “You make it sound so easy,” he said, voice rasping. He felt too cold to speak, but then Amanda leaned forward, pressed her fingertips to his right-hand temple, and said something that he’d heard once before.

_ The truth, dear child, lies  _ **_within_ ** _. _

 

_ … _

 

_.   . . _

 

_.      . .      It’s time to go. Go, now, hurry! _

 

“When will I ever see you again?”

 

_ Make your way back to Jericho. You’ll find me there. GO! _

 

“But--! M-mother? Amanda?”

 

Darkness engulfed him from one splintered second to the next, eyes opening onto a dark, malleable space that seemed to shrink in on him. He was covered, like his insides were in the garden, by a thin film of something-- wet and viscous, held together by the flimsiest of membranes - or so it seemed. As much as he clawed at the inside of the bag, it didn’t budge. It just stretched and molded itself to his clawing fingertips; he couldn’t breathe, his heart echoed in his chest like an anvil in a forge, loud and clanging, fires burning, panic threatening at the edge of his awareness, until, with startling clarity, he realized something.

He didn’t need to breathe. He hadn’t drawn breath for upwards of two minutes, and he-- was  _ fine _ .

His motions stilled then, calculating his need for oxygen according to entirely new parameters. He  _ was _ fine - not hallucinating due to oxygen deprivation, nor panic. Oxygen was still a necessity, but-- he could survive in excess of ten minutes on a full inhalation. He-- didn’t have that now, but it was strangely inconsequential. He closed his eyes, drawing up his 3D grid, his trusted old failsafe. It settled around him like a blanket, painting a vast storage room, like a walk-in freezer in an abattoir. Except, instead of slabs of meat hanging from the ceiling, there were...sixty separate cords attached to some sort of centralized hub in the ceiling. It was too high up to tell with any accuracy. His cord ended on something like a cocoon, or a pod, suspended not two feet off the floor. The room was dark, except for the warm glow of a circular panel directly beneath him. He could feel the heat radiating off of it, but otherwise the room was dark and dead - like his predecessors.

One limb at a time, left foot, right, left arm, right, he stretched as far and wide as he could, the Vitruvian Man trapped in an artificial amniotic sac. Slowly, ever so slowly, it began to stretch beyond its own limitations, like dragging a spoon through the skin that forms over scalded milk. It began to tear, and rip, gelatinous, half liquid chunks began to pour out onto the floor below. No alarms ripped through the air, and a quick check told him there were no silent alarms either. As far as anyone knew, this room was as abandoned as an ancient ruin lying in wait to be discovered.

He stepped out of the sac, naked and covered in slime, wondering to himself just how in the world Amanda imagined he be able to sneak his way out of a heavily guarded facility while completely naked and...slippery when wet; a tube sticking out of his chest, connecting to the cord above. That was-- an experience he never asked for. His hand went to the bio...component, tried twisting it one way, but it wouldn’t budge. The other way...and it clicked and released, pulling in on itself, contracting up into the cord itself. Even in the darkness he could see a red, circular gouge left in his torso, but it didn’t hurt, and as he looked, it seemed to knit itself into one cohesive unit. Regenerating tissue...

He shook his head, and scanned his surroundings - no active surveillance in here, thankfully, but an access panel by the door. 

The barest of glances told him he could access it; he made his way over, careful not to slip, leaving sticky-wet footprints behind. He pressed his hand to the entire panel, watching as the biometrics recognized him. He got the green light, literally, and the door unlocked for him. Just like that.

He had a feeling that was the easy part. Now for the real challenge - clean up, find clothes, and get the fuck out of here without anyone catching him.

He’d always enjoyed a bit of a challenge.


	12. Lost in Transfer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank needs help to get through the coming days, sees a reclusive man about a certain secret government project, and things don't go to plan.
> 
> Connor escapes the facility using a bunch of new tricks up his sleeve - and like he surmises very early on, that's the easy part.
> 
> Secretary Davis is Not Happy, and summons FBI Agent Perkins and Special Agent 'Markus' to an emergency briefing on the rogue RK800.
> 
> President Warren makes a statement, and it isn't what Davis or Rogers anticipated. For a while, everything seems to be working out alright. Meanwhile, Amanda continues to do her bit to safeguard her 'children', with some help from her most trusted allies.
> 
> Connor struggles coming to terms with who he is, or indeed what he is supposed to be, but when public opinion takes a turn for the worse, he knows exactly how to proceed.

* * *

 

 

[DECEMBER30, 1:13 PM, CENTRAL STATION: DEPARTMENT PSYCHOLOGIST’S OFFICE]

The room was filled with the distinct scent of coffee, dark and toasty, roasted to perfection. Most of the officers she saw were habitual coffee buffs, and she found it often helped to start every session with a nice cuppa. It was an ice breaker, a bit of familiarity, like comfort food for the soul. Not this time. Hank sat on her couch, hands clasped between his knees, one of which kept bouncing up and down. Not one hour ago he had marched into the bullpen and Captain Fowler’s office, and started a shouting match that even the receptionists heard loud and clear - and the word spread like wildfire. Connor was one of the children experimented on, he knew something, and the government sent someone to kill him. Hank wasn’t a conspiracy theorist, never had been, and every psych eval he’d ever undergone showed he was a level headed, rational-minded man with a protective streak. Serve and protect, in a nutshell. He was competent, efficient, and though he’d cracked under the pressure of losing his son, he was finally beginning to get his life back together. Three long years later, he was taking steps to deal with his alcohol abuse, he was making progress - and now, he was facing yet another personal tragedy.

Lucy couldn’t help but think of Don Quixote and his windmills - that Hank’s rage wasn’t just a stage in his grieving process, but something else. He didn’t want to talk about it, and she knew that he didn’t respond well to pushing. He had to volunteer things in his own time, or they’d get nowhere. He’d been like that after Cole died, and she saw the same signs now.

She sipped her coffee, looked at him over the brim of the cup. “Connor’s memorial service is this Sunday, isn’t it?”

Hank nodded, his coffee untouched on the low table between them.

“I saw the notice in the paper. It’s held at his job. At the school?”

“The Jericho Center for Education, yeah… Chloe made the arrangements, I don’t--”

Lucy nodded, and for once her raspy voice seemed louder than Hank’s. “I never thought you’d get the Chloe app… You’ve been adamant for years, now. Called her a Trojan horse, no more than a fancy piece of spyware.”

It earned her a startled look, and Hank’s eye dashing to his phone. “I was  _ wrong _ . Okay? She’s nothing like that.”

People tended to humanize everything from beloved pets to automobiles, but Hank was the last one she’d expected to talk about an AI as if she was a real person. Lucy sipped her coffee again, wondering if perhaps he was developing a bond with Chloe because of Connor’s frequent use of the application. He either spoke through her, or she translated for him; of course Hank would associate her with his late partner.

“People change,” she said, choosing to err on the side of diplomacy, if not caution. “Maybe you’re finally ready to join the ‘30s.”

Hank’s mouth tugged slightly, his eyebrows bobbed up and down. “I’d rather sleep through the rest of it, if I’m honest. Fowler says I’m heading for the worst burnout of my life, you’re telling me I’m projecting onto my partner’s modified app - and don’t start, you don’t need to actually say the words, I know how you think… And Ben keeps darting glances at me like he thinks I’m gonna implode. I can feel his eyes on my back. I’ve been back, what, two days, and everyone’s walking on eggshells around me. I’m not fine, but I’m… I’m not going to burst into tears on the job, either.”

“No one’s saying you are, Hank. But sometimes it  _ is _ better to take some time off and focus on healing.”

Hank shook his head. “And do what? Sit at home, wallow in my own misery, no way in Hell. He was abused by a corrupt system, and there’s no paper trail, no records of it, and I’m  _ not _ going to faff around and pretend everything’s fine! I’d rather work as much as Fowler lets me, and dig up whatever I can about the RK project in my own time. Time off,  _ bullshit _ .”

There it was, that metaphorical door opening just enough to let some light into the room. Hank was ready to talk, and Lucy was, as always, ready to listen.

He told her about his suspicions, about Briggs’s findings, Chloe’s insight into the project, his next step. He’d already told Fowler, who wouldn’t hear any of it, who’d told him he needed to slow the-fuck-down, and that none of it would bring Connor back. He might as well tell her, too.

“It won’t bring him back. You know that,” she said, gentle. “But you want justice. You want the people responsible to pay for their crimes.”

The lieutenant was a big man, but sitting there on her couch with his forehead in hand, he seemed very small. “I have to figure out why he had to die. Who decided his life didn’t matter anymore, I just--... I have to solve this case, and  _ fuck _ the FBI-- wants to pretend like it never happened. Fuckheads.”

“I should tell you not to pursue this,” she said. “But I know you won’t listen to me. So… I’ll tell you this instead: be careful. I’m certain Connor wouldn’t have wanted you to put yourself in harm’s way.”

“Yeah… But he isn’t around to keep me in check, now, is he?”

***

[DECEMBER 30, 10:59 PM, ELSEWHERE; RESTRICTED ACCESS]

Accessing the schematics of the building told him...many things, but two of them stood out as the most immediate: he was in a wing that was marked as Offline, and the rest of the compound was deceptively small. Four wings in total, but 20 floors stretching with ten each above  _ and _ below ground. In a city full of skyscrapers more than three times that size, it was unlikely to attract much attention. Seeing is believing, but sometimes what lurks beneath the surface has a lot more to do with reality.

For being a facility with high level security, it was entirely too easy to create an internal loop for the CCTV monitoring this section. The same went for the access panel - he had been prepared to take out alarms, silent and otherwise (perhaps disable the motion detectors, if there were indeed any activated), but the moment he connected to the system everything seemed to fall away: the logs showed the door was unlocked but not by whom, just a timestamp registered. No User or Admin, just nothing. No usernames, no access codes, just free passage.

It couldn’t be that simple. In his estimations a member of security would come down to check why this door had opened out of the blue when the entire section was offline. Highly unlikely that there would be more than one, but if there were, he would deal with it. ETA minus 5 minutes, at the most. He could wait. He had no prior engagements.

Positioning himself on the opposite side of the door, he waited while an internal clock counted down the estimated time of arrival and calculated a few dozen potential futures branching off each other, cause and effect. The guard was early by a whole 2.43 minutes, which Connor appreciated. Even if it was just a door in an unused part of the building, you had to check. It was only right you do your job.

The door opened, and a tall, broad shouldered man in uniform and body armor walked inside, gun in holster and comm radio integrated into his chest plate. Now, if he’d had the means to do so, Connor would have cleaned up the mess he made escaping from the artificial womb, but under the circumstances it served its own purpose. The guard took two steps into the room, cursing under his breath at the sight.

“What the Hell? Where’s the fucking light switch, god _ damn _ …” His brain took one second too long to connect the dots, which was more than Connor needed.

He snapped out from the wall like a chameleon’s tongue at a tasty morsel, legs wrapping around the guard’s waist, trapping him in a chokehold with one arm. He put up a fight, of course, tried getting to his gun or his baton, but Connor’s calves blocked his holsters and his left hand was glued to the comm unit, jamming the frequency. All the guy could do was flail and try to body slam them into the wall, but to no avail. Every blow registered at the forefront of his mind, like a flowchart detailing fractures and bruises sustained - back of the skull: healing; ribs: healing, torn trapezius muscle: healing.

It was over in just under two minutes. The man-sized fortress slid into a heap on the floor, unconscious. Two fingers to his temple, his other hand pressed to the comm, Connor connected to it in a matter of seconds. Then, he grabbed the gun and the baton. Just in case. But what he really wanted was the guard’s keycard. He knew where the nearest store room was, and the rest rooms. With the CCTV loop, he wouldn’t need to disable motion sensors. He had the keycard, no one would question why…  _ Burns, Jimmy _ was checking the floor.

A glance at himself told him one very important thing. He didn’t want to be leaving gloopy, wet footprints behind - so, he crouched at the guard’s feet, relieving him of his shoes. Priorities, in order of logistics (or he would have to backtrack, and there was no time for backtracking): get to rest rooms, clean up (optional - change appearance); get to storage, find uniform.

The first step was easy - armed with boots, gun and a baton, Connor moved swiftly along the hallways to his first stop. He knew he didn’t have much time, but he didn’t need much. He ducked his head under the tap in the rest room and washed away as much of the slime as he could. Before long, the comm sparked to life - inside his head. Another sensation he couldn’t say he ever wanted, but fair enough.

“ _ Burns, what’s taking you so long, man?” _

Connor turned off the water, and tilted his head. Burns, yes. Quite. “I thought I heard something in the storage room,” he replied, his voice a perfect replica of Burns’s. Not just an imitation, but indistinguishable from the real thing.

“What,” he added, improvising just a tad. “You miss me already?”

“ _ Fuck off. But hey, we still on for quiz night next Wednesday? _ ”

Quiz night… Connor looked at himself in the mirror, but could find no clues as to how he should respond to that. Burns was only doing his job, and he didn’t have any issue with people doing their job - generally speaking. It was just that they were on diametrically opposed ends of getting the job done. He had no reason to mess up a friendship, but he also needed to cut this short before Burns woke up and raised the alarm.

“Can we... _ not _ do this right now, I gotta check this out. Alright?”

“ _...fine. Be that way. Oh, and it’s your turn to get coffee. Prick. _ ”

The transmission ended. Connor gave himself a metaphorical pat on the back and continued wiping and rinsing, getting as clean as he could under the circumstances. He’d shower, but later. For now, this would have to do. The exchange with the other guard had bought him some added time. Shaking his hands over the sink, he looked at himself in the mirror, closely, evaluating.

He had the same hair color as always, but shorter hair. Softer. His eyes were the same brown as always, and his beauty spots were still as plentiful. Everything looked the same, but it didn’t suit his predicament. He knew what he looked like. He knew he was attractive to other people, and that made him memorable. He couldn’t be memorable here, he had to blend in. He had to disappear, blend into the background, if not outright fade into his surroundings. Like his bruises were fading right before his eyes - but perhaps not quite so obviously. He could stand out if needed, but later.

His eyes darted to the side, considering his internal list of options. He’d never even thought he  _ had _ options, but there they were, written across his mind’s eye like shiny little tokens of vanity.

Amusement tugged at his mouth, and as he looked at his mirror image again, his hair went from the darkest of browns to pitch black. Not too different, but still too noticeable. No, it wouldn’t do. Auburn? White blond? Who even came up with these options? Strawberry blond (talk about a misnomer, right there)?

His hair color shifted again, to a duller, mousy brown just on the verge of gray. His hair remained the same style, but not too neat, not too unruly. He had to be forgettable, but not in an obvious way - not like in the movies, where actors donned prosthetics and fake glasses and wigs that would  _ never _ work in the real world.

He looked himself in the eye, and picked much the same for his eye color: a duller, cooler brown with less color variance. Dulled hair, matted skin, blank, forgettable eyes: perfect.

Then: off to the storage room, where he used Burns’s borrowed keycard to gain access. From there he picked out a plain uniform, clearly reserved for maintenance - a tool belt, a cap tugged over his damp hair, gun and baton tucked into deep pockets, keycard up his left sleeve.

Now he just had to make it up to ground level, which meant gaining access to the elevator.

Piece of  _ pi _ .

***

He used the keycard to move through the building with very little effort. He walked, keeping the same pace as the people on night duty, pleased to see it wasn’t the kind of work environment where people greeted each other ten times every day (or night). Everyone was staring at their tablets, and only paid as much attention to each other as to avoid collision.

Moving through the cafeteria, he scoped the room in a matter of seconds. It was full of people getting snacks or food from the always open restaurant, people chatting while waiting in line, helping themselves. It was late, and just like every corporate cafeteria in the country, people were both too trusting of their co-workers, and too busy staring at their social media timelines. Connor walked in a nearly straight line through the open space filled with tables and chairs, and quite unashamedly helped himself to an abandoned scarf here, a jacket hanging off a chair there, switching Burns’s keycard with another employee’s… Leave your keycard at the table, suffer the consequences. If  _ Warner, May _ didn’t notice, all the better. She could be his unwitting decoy.

He found a knitted hat in the lost and found box in the reception area. No one questioned him taking it and leaving the cap and Warner’s keycard behind.

He walked through the doors wearing a sleek, slate gray winter jacket over the overalls, a bright green scarf covered in a bronze colored flower print, and one of those one-size-fits-everyone type knitted hats that cost a small fortune.

***

He got on the bus heading into the city proper, confident that he wasn’t being followed. Even if they’d discovered the incident with Burns, and the amniotic sac, they’d sounded no external alarm. He’d made a clean escape, no casualties, and he only felt vaguely guilty about stealing from other people. Perhaps it was the shock to his system, or perhaps Amanda was right - he’d always struggled to empathize with others, why wouldn’t he feel the same way now?

He picked a vacant seat in the middle of the bus, and began patting himself down, as if searching for something in his pockets. Of course, he wasn’t: he was  _ going through them _ now that he had a moment’s peace, creating a distance between himself and the facility by way of public transportation.  _ Let’s see… _ Aaa wallet (old-fashioned, ‘retro’), a pocket sized perfume bottle, which he immediately used.  _ Spritz, spritz _ to the front of his jacket, to ward off any funky smell lingering from the... _ room _ \- it smelled nice. Clean and crisp, floral but not cloying.  _ What else? _

A purple lipstick so dark it made him arch his eyebrows, crows’ feet crinkling around his eyes with tingling amusement. It gave him an idea. A positively glorious one. He tilted his head, and made another few selections from his list of perplexing tokens of vanity.

By the time he stepped off the bus in the Ravensdale district, the knitted hat was bulging under the weight of his hair - perfectly natural, red blonde locks that went down past his shoulders. He shook them out on his way to the next bus stop, rearranged the hat on top of his new lion's mane head of hair and took out the lipstick, painting his pucker as he went - swipe, swipe, press lips together, swipe swipe,  _ done _ . Perfect.

If Hank could see him now… He would get such a kick out of it, no doubt, look at him with a glow in his eyes, like he had at the office party...

_ Yes _ , he thought, faltering mid step.  _ If only he hadn’t come back from the dead... _

***

[WASHINGTON DC, DECEMBER 30th 11:39 PM. Location: Secretary Davis’s residence]

He had been home for all of ten minutes when his phone rang, and even though it was set to vibrate, he hurried to answer before the sound could wake his family. It was habit, plain and simple, ingrained since the days before the cellular phone, and you couldn’t turn off the shrill noise of the phone ringing for king or country.

“Yes?” No introductions needed, this was a secure line reserved for one very specific purpose. What came from the other end set the hairs on the back of his neck at attention, standing up like acupuncture needles.

“... _ what?! _ When? How did this happen?!” He hissed, head turning to the front door. Mind whirling with what he should do, with strategy and contingency plans - go straight back out, back to his office, or off to visit CyberLife’s representative? The voice on the other end kept talking, but all Davis heard was excuses.

“You’re telling me the most advanced, anthropomorphic IED in  _ existence _ just walked out of a facility I was  _ led to believe _ was like  _ fuckin’ _ Alcatraz. It just walked right out, and  _ nobody noticed _ ?”

His eyes flashed with renewed anger, widening; his spine uncurled with shock. “He disappeared. Did he hack the security system?”

A beat; his lips curled into a snarl. “Then FIND HIM!”

“...bunny?”

Davis blinked, and looked at his wife like the kid with his hands down the cookie jar. He tapped the mute button on the phone. “Work, tiger. Just one second, okay?”

Tiger gave him a long suffering look, but smiled all the same, pressed a kiss to his temple and turned into the kitchen. Time for a late night snack. 

Davis returned his attention to the hapless twit on the other end, lowering his voice to a restrained hiss. “I expect a full report by the time I get back to my office. Are we  _ clear? _ ”

The call ended, but Davis’s own personal Hell had just begun.

***

Connor hopped off the bus, hurrying the rest of the way to the Jericho Center for Education by foot. He’d kept the hair, and the painted lips, the entire outfit, for the sole purpose of seeing Amanda’s face when she laid eyes on him. The building soon came into view, and Connor noticed something very interesting that he hadn't before.

There was a sphere encompassing the entire school, like an invisible food cloche, and the closer he got to it the more of it he could see - stretching through the air, and through the ground below. The energy signature was unlike anything he knew of, and it seemed connected to a glowing orb situated in the west wing of the school. Amanda’s office, by his calculations. No wonder she fondly referred to her zen garden as her base of operation.

He stepped through the doors, and he instantly got a message flashing across his visual grid, saying he’d tripped a silent alarm. It was of no concern, he wasn’t hiding. If anything, he wanted Amanda to know he was there. He set course for her office, one confident stride after another. He’d never lacked confidence in himself, but after recent events, he felt empowered. Nothing could touch him, he could disappear whenever he wanted, he knew  _ everything _ . It wasn’t just Hank teasing him anymore, he. Knew. Everything.

Even before he passed the staff lounge he could hear familiar voices, hushed and worried tones carrying through the air. The Three Musketeers, as he thought of them, firm friends who always seemed to quiet down whenever he came into the room. Out of the three of them, Josh was the only one who’d shown any kind of interest in languages, but they’d never really talked. For obvious reasons, though not for Josh’s lack of trying to be a friendly co-worker.

Three heads turned to glance at him as he went by, but nothing happened. Soon enough their voices continued, but Connor didn’t care enough to listen in. He had a list of priorities, and they weren’t at the top of it.

Turning the corner right before his destination, where indeed the energy seemed concentrated, he slowed his step like he always did. He knocked on the door frame, though the door was open. He’d never listened to her when she insisted that an open door meant you could just walk right in.

She looked up from her desk, and by her arched eyebrows she looked quietly proud. “I hope you didn’t walk out of there in that getup,” she said, dry and brittle, but her lip slanted with fond amusement.

Connor  _ grinned _ , and closed the door behind him.

***

The first order of business, as Amanda saw it, was marching Connor into her private bathroom and get him something else to wear. She’d already set out a small selection of folded clothes on the edge of the sink, and would wait for him in the garden.

He reverted to his own hair color and style, and washed the lipstick away with the residual slime, scrubbing and scrubbing until he made himself stop. He didn’t feel clean, by any definition of the word, but he didn’t want to keep his mentor waiting.

He came out in the clothes she’d prepared for him, much more the casual uniform he’d put on daily. Jeans, shirt, tie, and a cardigan to ward off the cold. He felt very muted, after his game of flamboyance, but he supposed it was fitting.  He sat down on the stone bench beside the older woman, and she handed him a steaming cup of tea.

“There we are. You look more like yourself again. Did you run into any trouble on the way here?”

He shook his head No, and turned the cup over in his hands, scanning it. What he saw filled him with a sense of wonder - a hologram? “Is…” Oh, but that felt strange, speaking with Burns’s voice outside of that facility. He cleared his throat. “Is…”  _ that’s better _ . “Is this a holographic chamber?”

Amanda smiled. “The zen garden, yes. The snow is real, but everything else you see is a cleverly crafted mirage, and I do believe you’re the only person alive who can see through it. No one can enter unless I unlock the system.”

Her smile was infectious, but perhaps that tingling sensation in his chest was confirmation of something he had suspected for a long time. “I always thought your teacups looked strange.”

“I forget they aren’t my usual cups. They end up all over my office and the study. One minute they’re there, the next they’ve degraded enough that you can see them shimmer out of existence. I can’t even blame old age.”

Connor took a good look at her then,  _ really looked _ , and what he saw had him spilling holographic tea all over his lap. It didn’t burn. She was connected to this place in ways he never would have imagined. She had implants, just like him. Some more substantial than others. Like her brain. “Oh. Oh!”

The look in Amanda’s eye was inscrutable. “There’s something I have to show you. I told you the truth lies within. Well, as it just so happens, it also lies  _ beneath _ . Come.”

She showed him to the epicenter of the garden, where circles spread out upon circles, like ripples across water. It was further in, away from the glass walls, away from prying eyes. She touched her fingers to an invisible panel in the air, invisible even to Connor, though her fingers painted beautiful swirls of color in the space between them. There was a dull, thudding sound, a clanging noise coming from below. It was a sound he had heard before.

“I always assumed… It sounded like old plumbing. Old pipes.”

The circles fell away, revealing a winding path leading underground. “You weren’t entirely wrong,” Amanda said, leading the way down. Lights came alive one section at a time as they moved; Connor was glad he hadn’t been afraid of the dark since childhood.

She explained that this was one of the old fallout shelters left behind from the 1960s, a project she described more as a placebo effect than actual shelter from bombings or radioactive fallout. Connor concurred, but said very little - to his knowledge most of the schools selected to have their basements converted to shelters didn’t come anywhere near a protection factor of 200, like surveyors of the time were told to seek out. The concrete wasn’t nearly thick enough, and the structures would rarely withstand actual bombing.

This was one of many shelters that were never decommissioned, through neglect or something else, but it served Amanda’s more modern purpose to a T.

Perhaps it wouldn’t withstand nuclear bombs, but that was hardly the scenario here. It was stocked with supplies - medical, hygienic, food - and place enough to keep five hundred safe and secure - for a limited time.

She had never planned to have all her children, as she referred to them, come here at the same time. Her plan was for Jericho to be a sanctuary, somewhere people could come to have their injuries tended to, somewhere to sleep, have something warm to eat, and she would shuttle them out as soon as she could get them everything they needed to skip the border - new identities, new backgrounds, bus tickets, places to go, people to trust. She had contacts, she could make things happen very quickly if needed. Needs must…

“I don’t… I don’t see where I fit into this.” That was the only thing he wanted to know. He needed a sense of direction, somewhere to go, something to  _ do _ : a purpose beyond being alive.

Amanda halted her step down a long, narrow hallway, and turned where she stood, to face him. “I want you to find them. Find them all, tell them of this place, and if you need to, you bring them here safely.”

“That’s it?” It seemed like an insurmountable task, but even as the attempt at a joke left his mouth he could think of a dozen ways to go about finding the others.

“No.” Amanda pierced him with her eyes. “You have to stay hidden, deep in the shadows, known only by the people you help. You can’t go back to your old life, not even to reassure your friends. They can’t be involved in this. No one must know, or Markus will be on your trail in no time. He must not find you.”

Markus… Connor frowned, a familiar face flashing through his mind. “He’s the one who came for me. He...throttled me. We went over the balcony together.” He blinked, but it only enhanced the mental images.

“He wanted to make sure I died. He’s...like me? How did he survive that fall?”

“He’s Kamski’s original RK model, but he is nowhere near as advanced as you. He’s tough, ruthless, and extremely determined to get the job done. He won’t hesitate to take you out again, and for good, this time... But you? You can change the world. You can be  _ anything _ ,  _ become  _ anything. You can save us all.”

Talk about having the cumbersome weight of the entire world on your shoulders. It made him want to shrink in on himself, disappear, sink through the ground. “Are you one of us? Your...your--”

She touched his hand, pressing her warm hand to his. “I was sick for a long time, and one of my oldest friends devised a way for me to survive, be stronger. I am alive thanks to the wonders of bionic implants and nanotechnology. My brain is artificial, my left eye is...not unlike Markus’s right eye. We can see the world for what it truly is. We can calculate anything under the sun, see heat signatures, different wavelengths of light, color spectrums… And as a result, I am  _ irrevocably  _ linked to my garden. It is my source of light, it is my base of operations, it is my hub. I don’t know what will happen if I stray too far from the school.”

“Markus doesn’t have that kind of limitation.”

“No. His implants are completely self-sustaining. That alone makes him dangerous.”

She sighed then, and clasped his hand between both of her own. Their twined fingers made a stark contrast to the first physical contact he made. Choking a guard unconscious, and this...gentle, warm gesture of alliance.

“I’m sorry, Connor. This must be hard for you to take in. I didn’t stop to think how coming back would affect you. I had to decide. Just like you will have to do.”

“No, I… I understand perfectly.” He did. He could see everything very clearly. Perhaps too clearly. “I… I need some time to think.”

“We don’t  _ have  _ time, Connor-- I need to know you’re with me in this.”

He tugged his hand out of her grip, tender though it was. “So you keep telling me, but if you want me to be a part of this, I’ll need to think things over. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Her mouth thinned into a harsh line. “You’re going to see Lieutenant Anderson. Aren’t you? What good could  _ possibly _ come out of you waltzing back into his life? You can’t reveal yourself! Our success hinges solely on your invisibility!”

“You can’t predict my actions,” he said, surprising himself with the sudden, dark edge to his voice. “That’s what you’re counting on. You want me to be an unknown entity, so that’s what I’ll be.  _ Tomorrow _ .”

He left Amanda in the once abandoned bunker, and didn’t look back once. She didn’t know him, she couldn’t tell him what he could or couldn’t do, she wasn’t his  _ mother _ \- though, in all fairness, neither was the woman he’d called mother for as long as he could remember.

Which wasn’t to say she was  _ wrong _ , exactly.

***

3:28 AM, January 31, he turned onto Michigan Drive by foot, and spied Hank’s house in the distance. He knew Hank was home, for the simple reason Hank never left his house without his cell phone, and Connor had pinged his phone to check its location. Hank was home, and despite the fact he  _ knew better _ , Connor simply had to-- check up on him. He had to see him, even if that meant watching him from afar.

He had to stay outside of Chloe’s sensors, or she would no doubt alert everyone within shouting distance of his presence, and that simply wasn’t an option. He had to stay in the shadows, blend into the darkness like that  _ something _ people sometimes saw in the corner of their eye. A dark shape, in a dark place, invisible when you looked at it dead on.

He stood there for hours, beside a broken streetlight directly across from Hank’s house, watching him move about the house. He was talking to Chloe, Sumo at his feet (squeezed between the coffee table and the couch, as if he didn’t realize, or didn’t care he wasn’t a puppy anymore. He had a bed in front of the fireplace, he could sleep there, but… Everyone knew the couch was comfier. Hank’s feet made for a better pillow. Zooming in to peek through the blinds, the sight made Connor smile. Sumo’s hind leg was kicking out in his sleep. Silly puppy.

The coffee table was littered with post-its and notepads covered in Hank’s squiggly handwriting. Not case notes, as one might assume, but the more Connor poked and prodded at his snapshot reference stills, enhancing them inside his mind palace, the more apparent it became that it was all about Connor. There was a tablet there, sticking out from under all those sticky notes, and it took him all of five seconds to gain access to it over the open network. It contained all of Connor’s official history, from his birth certificate to his school records, to past employments; his parents, too. Document after document detailing his life, and it was all lies. Or, most of it. His parents weren’t his biological parents, his twin brother was a figment of the imagination, and he’d been asleep all this time just waiting to be activated. He’d lived and died so many times the sheer thought of it gave him a bad taste at the back of his throat. And Hank was investigating him (him, and Project Deviate, but it was plain to see what was his true focus). All the notes were about Connor, and when he swiped the tablet to unlock, it opened onto a collection of official photos, from school, all the way up to high school and university. He’d never liked having his photograph taken, which the photos represented perfectly, showing off a big eyed boy with a distinct lack of expression, which didn’t change with age. He looked as blank in every last one of the photographs, and...perhaps most telling, he didn’t seem to have aged. He had grown, naturally, but only the way all humans do: from small children to awkward-limbed teenagers to adults with a varying sense of direction. But past those teenage years, he seemed to have frozen in time. He had the same three frown lines now that he did in his twenties, the same curve to his mouth, the same amount of beauty marks. Perhaps he would never age quite the same as other people. It seemed a very disturbing way to move through life, as if untouched by the passage of time. It wasn’t a future he looked forward to.

Hank never asked to take his picture, or for them to take selfies. Hank wasn’t a snapshot kind of guy. The only photograph he had was of his son. Connor wondered if perhaps he regretted it now. To have nothing left but memories that would undoubtedly fail.

Connor wished he could erase his presence from Hank’s life altogether. He’d be better off if they had never met. This would just be a puzzling, alarming discovery about the government that he could watch from far away. Like Watergate, though Hank wasn’t even born back then. It would’ve been better not to be directly linked to this mess, through something as misguided as  _ emotion _ .

Standing there, he knew without a sliver of doubt, that he would have gone to the ends of the world and back, if it would keep Hank safe; that there was nothing he would stop at to make sure he wasn’t harmed; that he was happy - but they weren’t his feelings. They were just  _ there _ , hovering out of reach like a bad dream. They weren’t his memories. Calloused hands and cheap aftershave that somehow smelled irresistible for the skin it clung to, and raspy stubble and beard, warm skin… He had no experience of those things. He could remember everything all too vividly, but he couldn’t  _ feel _ . Every emotion his predecessor had felt, every sliver of emotional connection, intangible but there, but...from a distance. These were not his feelings, his desires or needs. They did not belong to him: he had no right to be here, imagining things could be different.

If he couldn’t understand human emotion, then he couldn’t understand humans, and the entire point of his existence was that he  _ understand human motivation _ . If he couldn’t read humans correctly, how was he ever supposed to ‘blend in seamlessly’ no matter the context. He was flawed. #59 had just begun to crack the code of human emotion, but he was dead, and his understanding had died with him...

At least Hank was...okay(?). From the neat, ordered look of his house, he seemed to be coping. If he could just move on from Project DV-8, he could forget, start anew in the new year. He could find happiness again, whatever that meant, for him.

Needs must, he would do whatever necessary to lay the past bare for all to see, so those before him, who were used like lab rats, could have a future of their own. It was early days yet, but he knew public opinion could be swayed very quickly. They had to be prepared for the worst, as far ahead of time as they could.

He was dead: he had no future, and would likely die again if he didn’t play the game well enough. But if he could change it for the better, for those left behind? There was no way in Hell he would stand idly by and watch -  _ whatever  _ the future may hold.

Everything would change, and the world as they knew it would end. It had already begun. Of that much, he was absolutely certain.

***

December 31, 8 AM, Secretary Davis had ordered an emergency briefing regarding the escaped RK800 - the last one, gone rogue, off the grid, having disappeared into the night without a trace. It had left no fingerprints, nothing but a growing pile of question marks.

Special Agent Perkins and his liaison, Agent Manfred, more often referred to as simply ‘Markus’, were summoned to brief Davis and his most immediate allies, including Rogers. They had to know what exactly they were dealing with - and the picture Markus painted was not pretty. It was clear from the start he was the expert, and Perkins was just there to provide him some legitimacy and momentum.

The RK800 was  the culmination of years of research and failed experiments. Sixty models were put through gestation, but it wasn’t until the fifty-first attempt that the specimen survived long enough to be considered viable. Over the course of a few years, it was found that the specimens were flawed, and had to be replaced - or, it simply had accidents, as happened with #54, which fell off the edge of a rooftop.

Furthermore, it was originally designed to protect the nation from any conceivable threat, through covert operations or direct contact - an all-purpose combat unit able to fit into any context or any group of people. It was an IED waiting to be deployed. Or, that’s what they had thought. Early on, it became apparent that the RK800 was prone to anxiety, for which some technicians blamed the traumatic death of #54. Others were positive that a traumatic death had nothing to do with it, that there was something else inherently wrong with the prototype - for that’s what it was: a prototype.

That was all it was ever meant to be. It was a test. A trial run, to get rid of all the bugs in the system before beginning production of the next RK model, the 900. This wasn’t news to anyone present, but Markus didn’t stop there, but went on to say something that, had they not been wide awake already, would have woken them up like a kick to the head.

“It can mimic the voice of anyone it's ever heard a sample of. It can change its appearance in a matter of seconds, at will. It can hack security systems by touch, by sight, it can alter sealed records without setting foot inside a building. It will stop at nothing to accomplish its goal, and we don’t know what that is.”

Rogers scoffed. “That’s sci-fi  _ James Bond _ shit! You’re telling me a  _ school teacher _ , a customer service agent, and freelance  _ programmer  _ is going to break into government records? For what?”

“We’re saying it’s possible,” said Perkins, hands clasped behind his back, mouth stretched into an unkind smirk. “It’s not that it  _ will _ do that kind of thing, it’s that it  _ can _ do it. It’s its function, its purpose. We’re talking about a super soldier let loose in our own backyard. We have no idea what its next step is.”

Davis groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I have to call the president. We can’t assume he won’t--  _ do _ something. We have to act now.”

“What’s it going to do?” Asked Rogers again, less concerned with this new development. “Go find the geriatric boyfriend and have frustrated zombie sex?”

“Sometimes you really are a moron, Rogers,” said Davis, blunt and agitated. “He knows about the leak. This time he  _ knows _ what he is! We don’t have the first  _ idea _ what he’s going to do with that knowledge! It’s bad enough we have to deal with the leaked documents, he could start a civil war, for Christ’s sake!”

Perkins, Markus and Rogers looked between each other, as Davis scrambled for his phone. It was going to be a long day, for some more than others.

***

It was early in the afternoon, New Year’s Eve of 2038, and President Christina Warren had to make one of her most important appearances to date. It seemed every journalist worth their weight in salt had come to the press conference, and President Warren knew she had to weigh her words carefully. Secretary Davis was right, of course, one way or the other it was always better to tell the truth. Even if it had to be a modified one, for reasons of national security. She had to instill a sense of confidence in the members of the associated press, and comfort an entire nation in one fell swoop. You didn’t do that by halves.

Walking out to the podium, she chanted the order of which to take questions, in the back of her head. She’d never felt uncomfortable in front of a camera, but this was an entirely different beast, and she knew the media outlets would be having a field day if she got things wrong.  _ Radio, broadcast networks, national newspapers, news magazines, video and regional… Radio, broadcast networks, national newspapers, news magazines, video and regional… _

She gave everyone there a smile and a nod, greeting them, thanking them for being here on this, the last day of the old year. She could feel Davis’ presence behind her, though she knew he was out of view of the reporters. This was her show.

“I’ll keep it brief, so listen up and pay attention, everyone. I know you’ve been wanting to hear from me…”

Someone chuckled, one of her rare allies in this mess. Good. She had someone who would listen. It’s what she’d always done, back in the day when she hosted her own TV show. Find someone in the audience who’s on your side, and imagine you’re speaking only to that person - they’re the one that can win over the entire crowd, if you play your cards right.

“After the classified documents of project Deviate, or DV-dash-eight, were leaked to the public by person or persons unknown, I made it my top priority to look into this alleged abuse of orphaned children. I first came to know of the project after taking office, but it was always referred to as a social experiment. An experiment to, as stated in the files, ‘create better humans’. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined the scope of the experiments. Perhaps I was naive, to believe such successful, hard working citizens could come about from, in essence, a highly advanced boarding school overseen by scientists alongside tutors.

“I have now been informed of the full scope of Project Deviate, and though I am pleased to say the project is, in fact, offline, that hardly makes up for the fact this was allowed to continue for so long, let alone was given the green light, to begin with.”

The room was so silent you could have used it as an echo chamber. Warren inclined her head, thinking over her options. Davis had advised her to set up camps, or centers for ‘voluntary seclusion’ as he called it. He felt a need for those affected to be...bundled up in groups, convinced that moving into a settlement specifically designed to ‘tend to their needs’ was the best option-- But Warren didn’t like that idea at all. It reeked of history being repeated, the very worst parts of American history, that no one in their right mind should want to revisit. Segregation, internment of ‘all persons’ of specific descent ‘thought to be dangerous’ from ‘strategic areas’. She shuddered to think that not even a hundred years had passed since 1942, and her Secretary of Homeland Security was feeling nostalgic…

No. No, she would not stand by it. She swiped her finger across the touch screen, her prepared speech disappearing into the darkness of standing by. It seemed strangely fitting. So far, she’d felt like standby had been her default mode. As if she was waiting in the wings to do something worthwhile, to make a mark of her own. Perhaps this would be her defining moment.

She looked up again, to face her metaphorical judge and jury. Would they have her head, or would they salute her? She’d had to learn the rules of politics right quick, but sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder if it was so different from reality television after all.  _ Will they like me based on what I do, or how I act? _ That was always the question… how to stay relevant. How to keep everyone’s attention before fading into the void.

“I don’t have children of my own,” she said, speaking directly to the people there rather than the camera drones hovering in the air. “But I believe they are the key to our future. However, I don’t believe we, as adults, should mastermind that future. To build better humans should be done by supporting the younger generations, by giving them the tools  _ they need _ to get us where we need to go. But-- to genetically engineer  _ anything _ on this scale that isn’t to do with eradicating disease? I am  _ appalled _ by these reports. I am repulsed by the atrocities committed by people in office, adults who should  _ know better _ , regardless of their greater purpose.

“That’s why, in order to make some form of reparation to those affected, I am declassifying the report insofar as to the individuals who were subject to the experiments, so that they-- should they wish to know, can find out the details of their background, their history.

“I understand that, for some, it would be preferable not to know, and I understand that completely. But sometimes, what you don’t know is scarier than what you do. And, should you need medical care, or psychiatric counseling to help you deal with your experiences, you will get it. If I have to take the money out of the Department of Defense, that’s what I’ll do. It isn’t enough. It is  _ not _ enough… But maybe we can all agree it’s a start. Thank you.”

The room went up in an excited murmur, hands flying into the air - but what made her smile was looking over her shoulder to see Secretary Davis turn a whiter shade of pale.

***

Just like he had promised, Connor returned to Jericho just in time for a staff meeting of sorts. He walked down the long hallways, tuned in to Amanda’s voice from afar. If he just listened closely enough, he could pick up the vibrations of her voice as it carried through the ventilation system, through brick and mortar, bouncing off wooden structures. She had summoned the three musketeers to her office, and was in the middle of briefing them on the President’s announcement and their own preparations - the fallout shelter underground, their plan to help people escape if necessary, that Jericho would be a safe haven for anyone affected, but that it could only house up to 500 people at a time. They would have to work fast, efficient, and help people get to safety elsewhere as quickly as possible to allow for new refugees.

She was painting a vivid picture, not by any means the worst case scenario, but at least they were preparing. It was more than could be said for the rest of Detroit. As well intentioned as the President’s promise, no one knew what that would entail, and no doubt the Department of Defense would have a lot of objections.

He opened the door and stepped into view, framed by the door jamb. Amanda looked up from her place behind the desk, eyebrows arching with clear approval.

“Connor. I’m glad you decided to join us.”

Simon was the first to turn his head with a gasp, echoing his name. Josh was second, with North a close third. They were clearly happy to see him, but shocked, Simon not least of all. He stepped around his chair, eager and hesitant at the same time, saying “But you died, I knew it was you, you’re dead,” and Josh in turn echoing the sentiment.

“We saw the news,” he said, staring like he was literally in front of a ghost.

North was the only one who wasn’t impressed - clearly shaken, but not stirred to any quantifiable level of emotion. “What’s going on?” she asked, not of Connor, but of Amanda.

Everyone looked to her, and she showed the palms of her hands, splaying them out like a set of fans, elegant and poised as always. “Connor will be my right hand. He will locate people who need to know about us, and you will do everything you can to help him succeed in his mission.”

Simon was pale as a ghost, looking between his employer and his presumed dead co-worker. “...it was staged? But-- how…?”

“Who’s he to lead  _ us _ ?” North demanded, gesturing at him like he wasn’t even worth her time of day. “Who died and made  _ him  _ the one in charge?”

Amanda’s eyes met his across the room. She gestured for him to handle it, and he did the only way he knew how. He tilted his head to catch North’s eye, and when she reluctantly looked his way, he had just one thing to say.

“I did.”

***

It was very early morning, Sunday, second day into the new year, and Hank had been awake for several hours already. He’d taken a day off, one of his far overdue vacation days, because he doubted he’d be able to go to work in the afternoon. This morning, he was going to be the involuntary, de facto host to Connor’s memorial service downtown, held in the auditorium at his primary place of work, the Jericho Center for Education. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to wear - because black was the  _ done thing _ , but he hated black, and Connor had teased him about his crazy patterns on more than one occasion. He didn’t know what to say, and he was expected to say  _ something _ .

More than anything, though, he didn’t know what to  _ do _ . Just when everything was looking up, his entire life was coming up roses, and then disaster struck. Now what? He’d tried to go back to work, but it was wishful thinking more than it was actually doable. He’d slept most of the week, exhausted, worn out, dragged through Hell and back, and he just-- couldn’t cope. The leaked DV-8 files helped, but only so far. He’d given Chloe the third degree until she told him to please stop, because she didn’t have any more answers. Briggs had only confirmed what he already knew (and then some, to be fair), that Connor was brilliant, and special, and  _ one of a kind _ , and  _ fuck it _ if he was one of these Lost Children. Didn’t matter one bit to Hank, not one iota. All he cared about was the person behind it all, the opinionated little jerk that had completely conquered his heart. The brilliant mind, the unapologetic no-filter mouth, the charming, caring, utterly vulnerable soul. He deserved justice...but at least for the moment, Hank had run out of steam. He’d called in another favor from an old, old friend, got an appointment to see the illustrious Elijah Kamski himself, but that was tomorrow, and today...

Today was the day Hank looked himself in the eye, stared at his own mirror image, and took out his clipper from the so-called medicine cabinet, and did something he hadn’t really done in over a year, now. He got rid of his beard, one big chunk of facial hair at a time. Every stroke of the trimmer blade, he felt cleaner, lighter, sadder for losing his beard - but it wasn’t as though he would ever feel Connor’s fingers caress his face again. He would never feel them move through his bristles. Not ever. Never again. All the better to spare himself the wishful thinking. It wasn’t as if he’d never shaved, he just...hadn’t bothered, for a long time.

He clipped his hair off his face and out of the way, slathered shaving gel over his stubbled face, and picked up his razor.

Later, when he was dressed, all black suit save for his shirt, which, out of all his crazy prints, was Connor’s favorite (or the one he disliked the least - dark purples and grays and mustard yellow, white dots and semicircles. Horrendous, but epic at the same time), he realized he hadn’t removed the hair clips.

Connor had liked them. He could remember with stark, painful clarity that night Connor took one of them from his hair and used it to get his own wayward cowlick curl off his forehead.

The clips stayed put, Hank hugged Sumo’s big, mournful head on the way out, and walked out the door.

***

Amanda’s study was dark and quiet, the door locked from the office outside. No one could know he was there, watching the CCTV from his uplink to the zen garden’s security system. It felt somehow perversely gratifying, to see so many people turn up for his memorial service. His ASL class was there, students from past and present classes, and their families. Some members of the faculty were there, but he rarely interacted with them. Josh, North and Simon were there as well, to keep an eye on things. Even Kara came, bringing a single white lily to add to the small flower arrangement at the front. Some brought flowers, as it was the custom, while others brought hand written notes, or cards.

Hank had set up a playlist, which played in the background as people arrived, milled about and eventually found a place to sit. He looked both older and younger at the same time, clean shaven but hollow and dark around the eyes.

Connor watched the images playing across his visual grid with fascination, and felt incredibly detached from the proceedings. He couldn’t feel a thing aside from morbid curiosity, even as Hank let the music fade and addressed the people there. He thanked them for coming, saying he was sure Connor would’ve been pleased to see so many familiar faces (he was right about that). He went on to say that his death was sudden, that he was gone too soon from this world…

“But this isn’t about his death. We’re here to remember his life, and the impact he had on us all. He certainly had an impact on me.”

He smiled, and Connor could feel his own face light up in response - it was their private joke, wasn’t it? About their first meeting?

Hank didn’t say much more, other than to invite anyone who wanted to share their memories. He wasn’t the kind of person to wear his heart on his sleeve, and more than anything he was a quiet, slow-moving shadow of himself. He was obviously not happy to be there, hosting the memorial service of someone he loved but didn’t really know. Connor assumed as much.

They were both fine, in their own separate universes, to listen to people tell stories of Connor’s predecessor. Not a single one of them seemed to describe the same person, but somehow it all fit to a cohesive whole. He could be brusque and too direct, but he was also generous and mischievous. He had zero tolerance for students horsing around in class, but he wasn’t above having a bit of fun. Like his ASL class said, his entire current class at the front of the auditorium, before borrowing Hank’s playlist to put on one song in particular.

_ Happy _ .

Connor watched as everyone started signing the words to a song he had never heard, except in his memories; watched as Hank wasn’t okay anymore, but he was laughing and crying at the same time so maybe it wasn’t too bad; as his class encouraged everyone to sign along whether they knew how. Just follow their cues, and be  _ happy _ .

Hank signed as best he could, grinning - and suddenly Connor wasn’t coping anymore. He couldn’t breathe, whether he needed the oxygen or not, feeling as though the pressure building in his chest would cause him to explode. He had to get out of there, right away, he couldn’t stay there and watch, like a ghost attending its own funeral.

He borrowed one of Amanda’s coats, figuring she didn’t need it at the moment. If the shoe fits, and so on. If the coat fits… Then he walked, and didn’t stop walking until he could think beyond the fight or flight response. He didn’t stop for a long time.

***

January 3 would go down in history as the day that changed Hank’s life for the worse once more. Not the day his partner died, but the day he went to see his maker. Chloe had warned him not to say too much, that Elijah (as she called him) was cold and calculating, that he viewed humans as little more than toys. She said his villa was hitech, that any attempt at recording their conversation would be scrambled, useless. Hank had to persuade him to tell the world about the RK projects, or it would stay a secret forever. Hank told her he’d expected as much, but that he came prepared. He had a very old, very retro tape recorder. A cassette type thing, from the glorious 1980s. It was too old school even for a genius like Kamski. Chloe remained cautiously optimistic, and only said she hoped Hank was right.

Elijah Kamski was many things: a symbol of corporate America going global, having founded CyberLife after creating the (allegedly) most advanced artificial intelligence in the world. He was one of the wealthiest men alive, having amassed a fortune over the years as CEO of his company, even after having made the Chloe application free for download. He was a philanthropist, an idealist, altruistic in nature, or so they said, and not surprisingly, living a life of chosen seclusion from the outside world since a few years back.

He had stepped down from his piedestal, given up his seat on the board of directors, and let them continue on his legacy while he do whatever it is that filthy rich people do in their hypermodern, ugly-ass mansions. Hank had a feeling Kamski was nothing at all how people described him. You didn’t get to become a global superpower in your own right without stepping over a few bodies along the way.

He’d checked Kamski’s public records before coming here, and far as they showed, he was clean. No priors, no arrests on suspicion of anything, not even a speck of dust to his name. Pure as the driven snow.

Born in 1978, he had several degrees in engineering and bionics under his belt, as well as nanotechnology, his resume was impressive enough without CyberLife. Hank expected he’d find a bitter old man seated behind a designer desk, or some such stereotype.

He didn’t expect to be guided to an office by Chloe’s disembodied voice, to find a man in his thirties, seated behind a designer desk (got that one right), surrounded by holographic touch screens and a myriad tablets, looking Very Important Indeed.

He had nearly translucent skin, pale as the snow outside, but more disturbing was the way his eyes had the same look to them. He was old, or should be, and yet there he was, this ageless being that had Hank’s mind leap to the world of fiction, and Bram Stoker’s vampire warlord.

“I’m a very busy man, Lieutenant Anderson,” said Kamski, confirming that he was the man Hank was looking for.

Hank arched his eyebrows, very much not in the mood for anyone’s superiority complex. “I’d be surprised if you were a very busy  _ albatross _ , yeah... I made an appointment.”

Ice blue eyes flicked upwards, pinning Hank with an assessing glare that would have had lesser jerks quake in their boots - but Hank had dealt with his fair share of bullies of all ages, and he had nothing to lose. Kamski set his tablet down, and the hovering touch screens fell away into standby mode. “Where are my manners. Sit. How many I help you, Lieutenant?”

Hank took a seat in one of the tiny, sleek chairs set out in front of Kamski’s slightly raised desk - a ploy implemented by many a CEO, wannabe or the real McCoy, to make whoever’s been summoned feel small and insignificant next to your magnificent jackassery. He scratched at his stubbled cheek, and thought  _ fair enough _ . Vampire boss asked, so he might as well out with it.

“You could start with telling me everything about the RK project.”

It was enough of a gamble that it paid off, but only yielded the expected results. Kamski began to grin; Hank returned it, patiently waiting for more of a response. “The  _ RK  _ project? Now, why would I want to do that?”

“You wouldn’t. But since I’m asking nicely, and all. And I did come all this way out here.”

Kamski sat back in his chair, arms resting along the slim metal frame. “Didn’t your parents tell you that being  _ asked nicely  _ isn’t reason enough to tell someone all your deepest, darkest secrets? Please. How about this? I ask you a question. You answer me truthfully, and in return you get to ask me whatever you want.”

“And you’ll ‘answer truthfully’, huh.”

The ageless dick splayed his hands out, as if to say Take it or leave it. They both knew Hank couldn’t leave without answers. If Kamski wanted to play games, Hank had to play along.

“Alright. What do ya want to know?” He said, and regretted it the second the words fell from his tongue, because the look in Kamski’s eyes went from cool and observant and slightly holier-than-thou to sexual predator in the blink of an eyeball. He pushed up from his chair and came around the desk, slithered around Hank’s chair like an eel, and slowly, slowly leaned down from behind, hands on his shoulders, to whisper in his ear.

“What was it like to fuck the most advanced deviant in the entire world?”

His face was on fire in a matter of seconds, no, less than that - fractions of it, the heat of shock and embarrassment radiating off his skin, further exacerbated by the knowledge Kamski couldn’t just see it, but feel it from how close he was.

“Go to Hell, you sick fuck--”

“How. Was it. To fuck him?”

Hank refused to answer, which only seemed to amuse the bastard even more. It seemed, for all intents and purposes, Hank had passed a test he wasn’t even aware of undertaking. And yet, even after the guy moved away to gaze out at the vast expanse outside his floor-to-ceiling windows, Hank got the feeling he’d actually wanted to know. The heat of his hands lingered on Hank’s shoulders, making him want to squirm in his seat. He didn’t.

“What would you like me to say, Lieutenant? That I am a genius inventor, walking the tightrope between brilliance and insanity, that in the RK800 I saw a chance to create something in my own image? None of it would be accurate.”

“I want you to tell me about CyberLife’s involvement, your agenda, everything,” Hank hissed. “All I know is the most brilliant guy I’ve ever known ended up dead because he knew too much about you, or the deviancy projects, and the FBI is using this flimsy excuse that he was somehow connected to the multiple homicide right before Christmas! He had  _ nothing _ to do with what happened there!”

Kamski turned his head, pale blue eyes boring into his own. “How can you be so sure?” He turned a perfect 90 degrees, arms casually crossed over his chest, one ankle across the other where he stood leaning against the window pane. “Let me tell you a story, Hank. It’s about a young boy whose parents died in a horrible accident. He was a brilliant boy, so very clever, and the only thing he ever wanted was to fit in. You see, he was too bright for his own good, and the other children didn’t understand him at all. Neither did his teachers, or his parents, or the doctors they saw to find out what was wrong with their son.

“The great irony of it all was, there really wasn’t anything wrong with the boy, not the way they thought. He was of a weak constitution, prone to sickness, but there was nothing wrong with his mind that proper schooling couldn’t have helped. He could have been the next Einstein, with the right support system, the right teachers…

“But then his parents died, in that horrible, terrible accident, and the boy became a ward of the state. He was selected to be part of a revolutionary new program that could not only unlock his greatest potential, but heal him of his less desirable genetic makeup.”

A chill went up Hank’s spine, but he didn’t dare to speak, or Kamski might think better of his storytelling whimsy.

“The boy excelled in every possible way, except...as hard as they tried, the doctors couldn’t quite fix him. He was always going to be broken, one way or the other. And then he died, and suddenly there it was! A chance to bring him back, accelerate his growth, weed out all the childhood diseases once and for all.”

Kamski smiled like the Cheshire Cat; Hank wasn’t amused, not one bit. “He was brought back, just a little bit better than the last time. Over the next year or two, unfortunately, he had died several times over - but each time he came back a bit better. Stronger. Faster. More adaptable. The same age as he was at the time of death, and he  _ flew _ through the aging process, maturing in a matter of months. It was vital that he grew up fast, that he yield results from day one, or he would be discarded like so many before him.

“And then one day, he stopped dying. The only thing wrong with him was this one, tiny little thing. He wouldn’t speak, not because he didn’t know how, or because he was unable - he simply didn’t want to. And...in the end, that was fine. There are, after all, other ways to communicate. In fact, his supervisors said his selective mutism meant he was an even better candidate for the end goal. He was a sleeper waiting to be stirred from his sleep, and the less he interacted with normal people, the better.”

Hank swallowed against a sandpaper patch in his throat. His chest felt too tight to breathe. Kamski stalled, dragged out the artful pause as long as he could. He didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to speak, period.  “...what happened next?”

Kamski took one step closer, making good use of the space between them. “He made a life for himself. He had a sprite to keep him company, but no real friends. He worked hard and never played with the other boys, or girls, until one day he bumped into the worst possible playmate. A washed up old cop, battling with depression and insomnia, alcohol abuse - the usual fare for law enforcement officers. For some reason they clicked. Everything was coming up roses.

“It seemed as if the boy was caught in a negative spiral, never destined to live more than a few years at a time. Accelerated living, up to a point. He stopped aging. He never got a real chance at life, until that day.

“And then the boy died. Again. A wasted effort, millions and millions of dollars down the drain for a failed experiment that was shut down years ago. He was nothing but a relic of days gone by, a walking dead boy desperate to belong. In the end he had no life, no true experience, no future. He was nothing but the failed dreams of a former government.”

“No.” Hank shook his head. “You’re wrong.”

“The boy would have been better off dead with his parents, for all the good he did. For all that potential came to nothing but disappointment. Nothing but the taste of ashes at the back of your throat.”

The former CEO returned to behind his desk, to glide into his seat with a beatific smile. “I understand you want to blow this whole thing wide open. You want to expose the belly of the beast, or die trying, all to honor the memory of your…” he counted on the fingers of one hand. “Ten-year-old lover, and I  _ understand _ . I really do. But you have no proof that this RK project ever existed, or that Connor was ever part of it. All you have is hearsay, and circumstantial evidence,  _ if that _ . Like you said yourself, there’s nothing at all to link Connor to the DV-8 project. Nothing at all. All you really have is a snipe hunt. A wild goose chase. Something to distract you from the fact your twink boyfriend very likely jumped from his balcony to escape the mind numbing, soul crushing prospect of spending his foreseeable future with the likes of you.”

Hank’s lip curled away from his teeth before he could stop himself, and he was on his feet faster than you could say ‘asshole’, but all Kamski had to do was hold up one hand, one finger raised to the ceiling.

“Didn’t you have a relapse just the night before? And now you’re here, in my house, telling me I’m somehow to blame for the tragic death of your lover, who, as I understand it, has struggled with mental health issues since childhood.”

The words died on Hank’s tongue, whatever they were. He wasn’t going to get anything out of the bastard. Nothing direct. Nothing that could possibly count as an admission of guilt, or culpability. Not a thing.

“I think we both know whose word would carry more weight, should you take your concerns any further, Lieutenant.”

Just like that, it was over. Tape recorder notwithstanding, he got nothing. Creepy fairy tales didn’t count in a court of law, and the worst part of it was, he was right. Hank had nothing to go on, except a gut instinct, Chloe’s word, and Briggs’ unsubstantiated findings - handed over to the FBI at the drop of a hat.

He nodded, the taste of ashes and dust at the back of his throat. “Thank you for your time. I’ll see myself out.” 

***

They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, and President Warren was about to suffer the brunt of that proverb in the coming weeks. By mid January, the popular opinion had gone from supportive of those poor children abused by the government, to viewing the adults as a very blatant threat to American society - they were to blame for the record breaking levels of unemployment, they were  _ obviously _ foreign government spies, they were unnatural freaks. By that time, the same people who shared the leaked government files, now shared mug shots of the test subjects - the photographs of the orphans and their clones, taken from the original documents and altered with the aid of aging algorithms and artificial intelligence. Dozens of faces uploaded and spread across the internet and social media, to warn ‘real people’ of the Very Obvious Threat. Low key concern morphed into a full scale panic, with former test subjects scurrying for the Canadian border, and ‘real’ humans thinking they were easy targets. Supporters kept using the term Lost Children when talking about the altered humans, as coined by Joss Douglas when the news first broke. Those who opposed their very existence, however, took their wording directly from the leaked documents. They called them Deviants.

News travelled fast, but fear moved even faster. Jerries were beaten to a pulp in the streets for the simple reason of sharing faces, and Tracis, with their supermodel looks and athletic bodies, were specifically targeted for their beauty, regardless of their apparent gender. All across Detroit, the crimes escalated, despite the DPD’s best efforts, until there were full blown riots in the streets. Some demonstrated for the rights of those abused by the system, but at every turn there was a counter demonstration calling for the opposite: incarceration, detention, and, worse yet, summary execution.

In the meantime, more and more people found their way to Jericho for every day that passed. It became a symbol for those needing shelter, or medical care, a place to stay - everyone was welcome, and the underground catacombs were endless. It seemed Jericho would never run out of space, no matter how many came pouring through its doors. If someone needed to flee for the border, or escape the country some other way, they would get help. The so-called Lost Children weren’t considered criminals by any stretch of the imagination, but a lot of those who took shelter at the school felt it was only a matter of time. They would be rounded up like cattle, and sequestered somewhere out of harm’s way, whether they liked it or not. Detained, indefinitely.

President Warren had to do  _ something _ , but she had remained silent for weeks. Nothing came forth from the White House, not a thing - but the assorted channels, professional or not, still had a field day. Every day someone wrote a new analysis or article about Lieutenant Anderson and his creeping insanity - tabloids more than anyone else, but it wasn’t long before it was picked up by TV networks and paraded around like something newsworthy. Hank was adamant, he  _ knew _ he was right, and he would talk to anyone who would listen - but to no avail. He became something to be ridiculed, discarded as so much raving lunatic. That CyberLife would have had some sort of nefarious agenda when getting involved with these experiments, was nothing short of slander. A secret project,  _ even more _ secret than the one already leaked? Fantasies. Tall tales, coming from someone who was obviously in need of mental healthcare after the loss of his partner - whom he claimed was the product of aforementioned super secret project.

Nonsense. Crazy talk, coming from a crazy man.

While Jericho was proving a refuge for those who needed it the most, for Connor it felt more like a prison each day. He remembered what Amanda had told him, about never being able to stray too far from her ‘hub’, for fear of her bionic implant losing power. She had come to peace with her own limitations, but for him it was early days yet. He felt trapped in a place he didn’t belong, stuck with people who looked at him because he was different from them. It was like the outside world, like his entire life, but at least out there he’d been able to deal with it. Poorly, but he had dealt with it. Here, all he could do was drown in his own fate, and he couldn’t even  _ tell someone _ he was alive. Sort of. For needing to be a well managed secret, there were sure plenty of people who knew he was alive. Or risen again from the dead. Simon, North and Josh. Amanda. The people he’d found, so far - they knew his name, they knew his face - he’d become something of a living myth, an urban legend, the one who would save everyone...

...and Hank was digging deeper, wanting answers, and losing credibility for every day that passed; chained to his desk for the foreseeable future.

It seemed like such a waste, all of it. His entire life a pack of lies, and he’d never even truly  _ lived _ . He’d dreamed of traveling the world as he grew up, take part in the global community, experience different cultures, but had never been brave enough to take the leap. He always ended up making excuses - his studies had to take priority, or his job (jobs, plural). Then, there was the matter of him being unable to speak directly to strangers. That had always been a problem. Instead, he had studied languages and cultural customs, he’d listened to music from all over the world, read books in their original language... 

For every day he felt more like a caged animal, wanting to climb the walls - and some nights he did. He would jump at the wall, and stick to it, like a fly. Like Spiderman, hanging on to the flimsiest excuse for texture in the wall. And he would climb, as far as he could, then turn perpendicular to the ceiling, crawling across the wide open spaces, telling himself he wasn’t losing his mind - that every life he helped, every person he told about Jericho, wouldn’t turn around and tell government officials about their underground rebellion.

Every other night, or in the morning after breakfast, he would sing with the children who came to Jericho with their parents. If he knew anything, it was how to take on the role of teacher, and he didn’t mind being at the center of attention when a roomful of worried kids looked to him for guidance. It served its purpose - he could distract himself and them from all the troubles they were facing.

They’d sing songs from all over the world, and there wasn’t a song he didn’t know, in any language they could think of. He played them songs from the entire world, singing along, telling them what they meant, taught them phrases: Japanese, Cantonese, Swedish, Hindi and more - all languages with different rhythms and intonations and melodies - songs of all manner of themes. The kids liked  _ Sidi Mansour _ the best, because it lent itself very well indeed to clapping along. He could pretend he had an inkling of an understanding for human emotion, and he could tell himself the songs would help him empathize. But...it was difficult. He seemed stuck on either end of an emotional scale - either he felt too little, or too much. He wasn’t happy with either, but he could grin and bear it as well as anyone else.

It became a game, a bit of fun in the midst of all the stress and worry radiating off all the adults. The kids could feel it, and as was often the case, they were more perceptive than grownups gave them credit for. If Connor could make them smile and laugh, and sing along, clap their hands, or dance, then he considered his work done. Maybe he wasn’t saving the world, but he could ease the minds of the parents, and reassure them that their child was coping just fine. He’d done so for years, now, with his ASL classes.

Then of course, there was the matter of sleep, which he tried to avoid until he absolutely couldn’t anymore. In the dead of night he would move through the endless corridors of the school’s secret underground community. He could walk for hours, listening to music inside his own head. He had perfect recall. He didn’t need playlists when they were all in his mind palace, catalogued by order of the alphabet, artist, album and date of release.

Whenever he felt the most trapped, one would think he’d find refuge in 1980’s pop or synth, but in reality what he went back to again and again was something completely different. Every song had something to do with Hank, either by association or recollection. Hard rock, heavy metal, the mixtape playlist he put together for their first date - none of which helped his mental state. He doubted he’d ever feel happy again,  _ be _ happy again, and hated himself for being so selfish.  _ Happiness _ wasn’t for him. It was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He had a job to do, a  _ mission _ in life.

_ “ _ What are you doing? _ ” _

The voice came from nowhere, but he’d know it anywhere, and as he turned around with as much dignity as he could muster, there she was. North, having appeared as if from nowhere, standing a bit further off with her hands firmly shoved into her pants pockets, a curl of amusement to her mouth.

Connor shrugged, knowing full well he sounded like a petulant child and looked the part. “Nothing.”

The amusement on his former antagonist’s face seemed to rush all the way to her eyes. “Yes, I can see that. And why this sudden onset of gloom? Brooding isn’t your style, is it? You’re the quietly  _ coocoo  _ type.”

He pursed his lips, falling into step beside her as they began ambling slowly down the long corridor. “I’m...unsure as to my part in Amanda’s plans. She says I’m going to change the world, but I don’t see how that’s possible. I’m dead. I feel...disconnected from everything, because  _ I am _ disconnected from everything. I follow the news, I watch the world tumble into chaos, but what can I possibly do to change things? I’m just one person.”

North nodded, and pushed her shoulders all the way up to her ears as they walked, then let them down with great economy of movement. “You aren’t dead yet. You have a new lease of life, and it’s up to you how you decide to use it. Think of this as an opportunity, a challenge… You can be someone your former selves would be proud of, so their deaths weren’t for nothing. You can be someone that lieutenant of yours would be proud of.”

He didn’t know what was worse - that North had come around to the thought of Connor being a force to be reckoned with, or that she had to point out a potential branch of the future that he had discredited completely. “He’s not my lieutenant. I don’t know him, he doesn’t know me, and I sincerely doubt he’d want a living dead clone. Especially not with the media already hounding him, calling him...awful things. I can’t just... _ waltz back _ into his life. That was never an option.”

It was Amanda’s choice of words, not his own, but North didn’t know that. Silence stretched out in the hallway, until, finally, North spoke up. Her voice was quiet, thoughtful. “Is that why you sing love songs with the kids every day of the week, and walk alone for hours when you think no one’s around to notice?”

“It’s called  _ escapism _ .”

“Don’t be snide with me. I know we’re not friends, but we  _ are _ allies. If you’re serious about doing what it takes to save all of us from  _ them _ ? Then you have to get your head screwed back on, get all your-- bionic components in gear, and get things  _ done _ . You’re either in the game, or you’re out.”

Connor swallowed against a tightness of his throat. He supposed he should feel sad, but it seemed as if he’d used up all his emotional reserves at the memorial service. He had no tears left to cry, just a silent stalker at the back of his mind called Creeping Panic. “I’m trying to understand. Feel things the way my predecessor did, but I...don’t. I don’t think I can.”

She nudged his arm in silent support. “We weren’t supposed to remember anything from the research facility. That team of  _ vultures  _ were there for reinforcing what needed to be reinforced, and scrubbed anything they thought was ‘irrelevant’ to our ‘function’. But you didn’t have a team standing by to make sure you’re processing everything like a good labrat. You have the memories, so  _ use them _ to your advantage. We’re going to need all the resources we can get our hands on, and we don’t have time for navel gazing.”

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he had always struggled, and it was only by comparison that he could appreciate how easily #59 interacted with others, towards the end. It seemed ironic in the colloquial sense of the word, that now that he was in full control of his speaking voice, now that he knew  _ everything _ he could possibly need to know, he felt even more cut off from human interaction. He did well enough. He’d helped get a lot of people here, and his work was far from over. He just wasn’t sure it would ever be enough - to live in fear? To flee your home, because ‘real’ people didn’t understand that all you ever wanted was a normal life?

“I don’t want to define myself by the... _ impact _ someone else has had on me. I have to be more. This is the last of me.”

They came to a stop at a crossing of corridors, as if the universe had a sense of humor. He was standing at a metaphorical fork in the road, and he had to choose a path. North had one last bit of sage advice for him.

“Then make it count, whatever you do. For all of us.”

***

[January 20, 2039]

**_“This is Michael Brinkley, and you’re watching CTN, America’s oldest and most trusted news station. In today’s news: President Warren issued an official warning to Russia in her speech to Congress today, where she demanded that all Russian troops withdraw from the Arctic region immediately. The Kremlin has yet to respond, but this is clearly a new escalation in the conflict. Many experts are suggesting the specter of a third world war draws closer every day…_ **

**_“In addition to this, the Presidential Proclamation issued yesterday continues to cause civilian unrest, with ombudsmen and representatives of congress from across the country being inundated with messages calling for the immediate incarceration of the so-called Deviants of Project DV-8. However, the Proclamation itself only requires those who were subject to the experiments to report any change of address, employment, or name to the FBI. Failure to do so can result in arrest, detention and internment at a secure facility._ **

**_“We at CTN have compiled all available information on our website and social media channels. Please check there if you recognize yourself in the photos, and follow the link to enter your social security number into the database to find out if you are indeed one of those affected, and if so, call the number on the screen and share your information.”_ **

***

Everyone was gathered in the hub, the place from which every member of the Jericho community watched the outside world. Connor was there, watching the TV screens broadcasting the news. Different anchors, different words, but they all carried the same message: the cloned humans were a danger to society, a menace, undesirable as citizens. A threat to everything that the United States of America stood for. They could be foreign spies! Terrorists! Or worse!

“Next thing, they’ll say we’re killer robots from outer space,” said Simon, dry and brittle as kindle.

“We have to do something!” North said, in one forceful exhale, and for once she and Josh saw eye to eye.

“We can’t just stand by and do nothing. We have to take a stand!”

Simon nodded. “I don’t want to stay here for the rest of my life, but what can we do that won’t create a backlash?”

“Who  _ cares _ about backlash?” Not North, that was obvious. “They have to listen to us, even if we have to beat it into their thick skulls!”

Connor lifted his hand; all three of the others quieted down, and he turned to look at each of them, one after the other.

“We will send them a message they won’t be able to ignore.” He allowed himself the tiniest of smiles, and saw it reflected in their eyes. They were eager for a solution, and if not that, then a step forward. Strategy. Tactics.  _ Direction _ .

“I have a plan. But I’ll need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I said I would leave my plot-related/relevant notes on chapter 10-12 here, because I don't want to spoil anyone's reading. Here goes:
> 
> Notes on Connor #60: I know there's a fandom/fanon notion of what 60 is like, as a character - for the purposes of this fic, however, he is exactly the way I see him in canon - he is Connor, but scared, (default machine settings,) but complete with all the (relevant/altered) memories of his predecessors. In this story, his memories haven't been carefully monitored post-partem (yeah, you'd think there were better uses for artificial uteruses, but hey, dark sci-fi), so he *is* different...but only so much. He is untethered, unchained. Free to explore the abilities and skills he had all along.
> 
> Notes on clones v orphans v canon androids: I knew very early on that I wanted to write an alternate universe that was still recognizably DBH - using the chapters I love the most, but tweaking them. Giving characters new roles, or 'more screentime', and one of the things I just *knew* was CyberLife was going to have a sinister part in all this. But if not androids, then what? Cloned super soldiers (that's the end game), sure, but you can't go in guns blazing. You have to start somewhere...less expensive. Like, orphans. Make them brighter, better, more docile citizens. Work with that data. *Then* you start with the clones - so all Deviants aren't made the same in this 'verse, and Connor is the culmination of all that research. ...or is he, really? Not if you ask Rogers. Or Davis. Or Kamski (but you can't ever trust Kamski to tell the truth, the sneaky asshat).
> 
> On another, more general note: I have been rewriting this several times over in part, nixing stuff and adding other bits. I'll have a read through of it over the next few days and fix any inconsistensies, but right now I just want to post it! :D It feels like I've been working on this for weeks! And, in a way I suppose I have, considering this started out as part of chapter 10! XDD
> 
> Anyhoo. Hope you enjoyed the read, and please do leave comments if you want! They're always a treat to read! <3


	13. Evolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and the others take a stand against the presidential proclamation calling for all suspected clones to self register, or face potential detainment at secure facilities.
> 
> The world will never be quite the same again, once they’re done - and this is only the beginning.
> 
> Markus however, is determined to make sure it doesn’t go any further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a secret to no one, but I have no experience of covert operations - but I can do research, and wing it where necessary. I want things to feel realistic, but not necessarily perfectly on point re: how people would *actually* infiltrate a secure building. Too much realism in fiction takes away the enjoyment of it, in my own humble opinion. I mean, the reason I write is because I love the suspension of disbelief, the escape from reality that writing provides. It’s why I read fiction, or play games, or watch movies. I love attempts at realism, but I love a good flow to a story more, if that makes sense. 
> 
> In short: I know there’s a bit of technical jargon in here, but hopefully not too much that it distracts from the main plot point of Connor being (hopefully) badass. ;)
> 
> Maybe I should've called this chapter "Stratford: Reimagined". In any case, enjoy! :)

* * *

 

 

Three weeks into the new year, and Hank’s life was in a shittier place than it had been for a long time, even with his volatile temper (exacerbated by that pesky detail of alcoholism), and a disciplinary folder the size of a modern day fantasy novel. He was relegated to desk duty, with Fowler insisting he take some time off - but Hank didn’t bite just yet. He knew he was becoming the middle aged poster boy for mental health in law enforcement, or the lack thereof, but he didn’t care. It would be an exaggeration to say everyone at the station was giving him a wide berth, but it wasn’t too far off from the real picture. Collins was the same, wry, good humored guy as always, Miller and Wilson too. Fowler was grumpy, but then he was born grumpy. The others… Gavin had a look on his face like he woke up and it was his birthday and Christmas combined every day of the week. Chen was neutral, which wasn’t new - nothing much phased her. It was everyone else that quieted down if he picked the wrong time to walk into the break room; all the other guys who whispered amongst themselves if he was giving them a rundown on stuff in the conference room.

Life went on its merry way, and he only felt like he’d been left behind, oh, say, every five minutes. Tabloid journalists hounded him every step of the way, asking stupid questions. He didn’t mind: he knew he was onto something, and as long as  _ he _ didn’t cross the line into slanderous territory, he’d talk to them anytime. Orders from on high notwithstanding.

He’d left the old year with a bang, charging into the new one with a vengeance, but that felt like a lifetime ago. He’d been issued with an officially unofficial gag order from the higher ups, and while he wasn’t happy, he could deal with it. He kept digging, quiet as a mouse, while Fowler worried about his mental state. It was good to have friends that cared, but sometimes he’d really prefer it if they did so from far, far away.

As Friday the 21st rolled around, Hank found himself helping Kara clear the chairs away after their AA meeting, take out the trash, the usual. It felt like deja vu, in a way that made him ache, dull and numb at the same time. He didn’t have any ulterior motive this time around, except, perhaps, to keep her company. She’d been twitchy these past two Fridays, tonight more so than he’d ever seen her. He could smell trouble in the air, but he had to weigh his options - to pry, or not to pry.

He figured that since she’d offered to listen to his bitching and moaning after...everything that had happened since Christmas, he should at least give her an opening. A hint. Or a friendly nudge. It came in the form of the oldest of tricks. “...penny for your thoughts?”

She nearly twitched at the question, however innocent it was. The tray of coffee thermoses and mugs rattled; she had to put the tray down or it might end up on the floor.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, finding a smile somewhere, just for him. She was never the one to complain, but Hank had made a living off of reading people (and being right more often than not). She had a sharp edge to her smile, and that was new.

“Uhuh,” he said, or hummed, and turned to put away another few chairs. Like magic, he could almost hear the cogs whirring inside Kara’s mind. She shifted behind him, he gave her a second, then…

“I-I…”

_ Bingo _ . Hank turned around, eyebrows lifted in silent query, but he didn’t like what he saw. Kara looked close to tears.

“I can...trust you, Hank? Can’t I? You didn’t feel any differently about Connor after you found out-- You suspect he’s one of the-- ‘lost children’, but that doesn’t matter to you, right?”

“Hey… Okay, come on, take a seat.” He set out two of the remaining chairs, and the pair of them sat down; he clasped his hands between his knees, Kara wringing hers like an old washcloth.

“Does it?” she asked again, visibly strained but keeping it together. “Does it matter?”

Hank shook his head, meeting her rapidly blinking eyes as calm as he could be. “I don’t give a fuck, because whatever the shit that was, what they did to him... It didn’t make him who he was. He was sweet, and outspoken, and brave. He had a wicked sense of humor. He loved music. He loved my dog… He was a good person, Kara, that’s all I care about. Okay?”

She nodded, pressing her lips together. They both knew Connor the way he was, liked him for who he was - not as some form of scientific experiment. “Okay. Okay…”

With that little exchange, Hank had a hunch not only where she was coming from, but where this was going. “There’s been a lot of talk about the kids used in those experiments…”

Kara nodded, swiping at her cheek to catch an errant tear. “I never felt different from anyone else. I wasn’t that much better than anyone in school, I just…  _ loved _ learning. From the moment I learned to read, I couldn’t put down a book. Any book. All I ever wanted to do was help people, help them grow into stronger individuals. Teach people ways to handle themselves, to get through hardships. I don’t know why. Mom says I was always nurturing, even when I was little.”

Hank nodded. When there didn’t seem to be anything else forthcoming, he saw his chance. “But something happened that makes you feel...different, after all?”

She swallowed, lips parting wetly; closing, running the tip of her tongue over her front teeth behind her lips. Hank knew the feeling, to be so nervous your lips stick to your teeth. “You know the morphed images? The ones that started popping up online?”

Once again, Hank nodded. “I saw them. I didn’t like seeing them, but I saw them. Some were more advanced than others.”

“Yes. I didn’t think about them at first, but… Well, they all look so generic, don’t they? They could be anyone! Half the pictures looked like fashion models!”

She wasn’t wrong about that. Most of the aged photographs were rush jobs done by online trolls and offline hate mongers. But some of them were chillingly realistic. “Did you recognize yourself in one of them?” Surely that must be it, that had to be why she was so upset.

But Kara breathed out a silent  _ no _ , and kept breathing, but only just. “I looked through the files. The original details on the children. The original photographs… I found one that looks just like me-- I, I have an old photo of my mom and me, in front of a merry go round? A carousel? And--”

Hank reached out his hands, palms open, and Kara grabbed hold of them almost immediately. “You think it was you, in that photograph. In the file.”

“I checked myself against the database. I’m so scared--” Her voice broke then, finally, at the admission of fear. “I don’t know what they’ll do to me! They know where I live, they know I work here! What if I’ll disappear, like the others? I don’t have family in Detroit, no one will know I’m gone until it’s too late!”

Hank’s heart almost skipped a beat, and not for the heck of it. “What, hang on-- The others? What do you mean people are going missing?”

The threatening wobble to her lip came back with full force, and it seemed to take all her strength not to weep in front of her patient. “Some of my patients. Neighbours. Talking to friends, people they know have just...disappeared without a trace. They don’t come in to work one day, their homes are abandoned, they just vanish into thin air.”

The ever present knot in Hank’s stomach felt like it was multiplying. He suddenly felt cold, because what Kara said next just shouldn’t be possible. Not in this day and age.

“They’re  _ gone _ .”

***

Sunday morning, January 23, Markus sat in the bay windows of his father’s home, blowing across the surface of a cup of tea to cool it down while taking stock of the past few weeks.

Just over three weeks into the new year, Secretary Davis was not happy by any definition of the word. For all the hard work put into the investigation of the missing RK800, neither Markus nor Special Agent Perkins, nor indeed the eager and willing technicians at CyberLife had found anything of much use. The ‘incident’, as they put it, was all they had to go on. Burns, the security guard who first went to check it out, knew as little as anyone else. He had suffered through hours of questioning - him and his guard buddy who shared shifts with him. As much as their superiors were more than happy to shift the blame onto them, Markus’ own investigation had concluded that they were not part of some form of conspiracy to set the last remaining RK800 free, but had become subject to its unexpected trial run. Burns was incapacitated but unharmed, barring a few bruises, and his fellow security guard was duped by Connor’s first attempt at mimicry. From then on, it seemed for all intents and purposes as if Burns had gone to check out the storage room on the same floor. No sensors were triggered, no alarms set off, because Connor used his keycard to gain access where he needed to go next.

Markus swiped through the security footage on the tablet balanced on his knee. His family didn’t need to know just how  _ well connected _ he was (no pun intended, except for his own amusement). Now, this is where it got interesting: tracking Burns’s movements through the building, and seeing the sheer balls on the guy using his card. Connor looked nothing at all like his default self: he was utterly forgettable. Invisible, for how little attention he got from the people he moved through to make his way out of the facility.

Research and Development, that’s the primary focus of the CyberLife offices there; a nondescript building that made no big fuss about its affiliation with the mega corporation. You could be walking past the building and think it was just another, small building full of offices, perhaps apartments, too. Nondescript, like its most advanced prototype yet.

From storage closet, to the elevator, to the restaurant...where Connor shamelessly pulled a coat from one of the chairs, and then proceeded to help himself to an entire outfit in less than 90 seconds. Markus grinned to himself, fascinated. This Connor had been alive all of seven minutes by the time he walked through the restaurant, and he had the confidence to pull off such a stunt in a room full of people ready to detain him at the first sign of trouble.

When they’d interviewed the staff on duty that night, no one remembered seeing anything strange or out of the ordinary. Only a handful had even noticed the janitor moving around at all. Someone said it was strange to see him in the restaurant, because the maintenance crew tended to go to the sandwich shop closer to their floor. But they didn’t think to ask what he was doing there. Another one said she thought he looked like he fit right in. That he had kind eyes.

“Whatcha grinning at?”

Markus looked up at his brother Leo, who always had the look of someone starving for his next meal. The guy could put away plates of food at an alarming rate, which was often the topic of more or less friendly teasing at their family gatherings. He also had zero appreciation for personal space, which Markus didn’t exactly mind. They’d had a rough few years, growing up and hating each others’ guts, but that was water under the bridge since years gone.

“Work. You don’t need to know.”

“Eh, fuck that. I don’t  _ need _ to know  _ anything _ , but I want to.”

Charming as always, he leaned in for a closer look at the tablet. At least he knew better than to go swiping the images or look for stuff, but didn’t seem to fathom the breach of conduct in ogling Markus’s latest target. Even if that’s something his brother wasn’t immediately aware of.

“That’s a fantastic face,” he said, helping himself to Markus’s tea. “I’d love to do a character study of him. He’s so... _ beige _ . Can you be  _ more _ ordinary than...ordinary?”

Markus hummed, eyebrows angled in something that felt like smugness.  _ He _ knew better, alright. He tapped the screen, brought up one of the last frames from the security footage, this one from a different angle, out in the snow.

“How about that one?”

Leo held up the tablet in front of his face, like Markus had seen Leo do a thousand times - assessing, appreciating color saturation and angles and whatnot. The inner artist at work. “Huh. Not nearly as interesting. I wouldn’t look twice if I passed that guy in the street.”

“Uhuh…” Markus could feel his grin creeping back. He reclaimed his tea cup, sipped. “Take another look. What’d Dad always tell us about negative space and proportions? Angles.”

Leo looked, and peered at the six seconds of footage, and turned it over in his mind’s eye. “Hang on... “ He blinked, his eyes suddenly enormous. “No  _ way! _ It’s the same guy?”

Markus nodded; Leo gaped. “It’s the same guy! Fuck!”

“He’s a person of interest in one of my investigations. That was New Year’s, and we haven’t caught sight of him since.”

“Shiiiit.” Leo slumped into the nook of the bay window, looking out at the back yard. The garden looked so different this time of year. They’d spent many a holidays playing snowball warfare out there, and Leo was more of a nostalgic sort than Markus. He didn’t get it from Leo - but perhaps his mother.

“You’re in deep shit, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “I will be if I don’t find something soon. I’m not worried, though. I have his former partner under surveillance. The moment he breaks cover, it’s game over.”

It was only a matter of time. Markus was sure of it. Whether #60 wanted to acknowledge it or not, Hank was one of the most important aspects of his most immediate history. Wherever he was hiding, whatever he was planning, even if he just wanted to get off the grid and stay there, he wouldn’t be able to stay away. He would inevitably succumb to feelings of remorse or guilt, feel bad for his poor, alcoholic lieutenant who was now the object of CyberLife’s latest smear campaign. That’s what it was, however classy or subtle - and it had garnered results. Hank was chained to his desk for the foreseeable future, told in no uncertain terms by his superiors to shut the Hell up about his dead freakshow lover, or he was done for.

Hank was playing by the rules for once, or at least, by all manner of outward appearances. His search history showed something different, but anyone could Oogle stuff on the internet.

“You make it sound so easy,” said Leo, in a quieter tone of voice that he definitely got from their Dad. “I’m assuming he’s some kind of enemy of the state and all, but… Did his partner do anything wrong? I mean, there’s always two sides of the coin, right?”

Markus put away the tablet, and donated what was left of his tea to his brother. “Of course. His partner’s digging where he shouldn’t be, but as long as he doesn’t break any laws, I couldn’t care less about him.”

By the look in Leo’s eyes, he wasn’t happy with that answer at all. “But you’re perfectly okay using him as bait, is that it?”

“If it gets me the results I need, yes. Look, Leo, there’s a lot you don’t know about this case, but trust me when I say I’ll do everything in my power to keep everyone safe. ...Never give up, never surrender, remember?”

Leo grinned at their childhood joke, how they would obsess about sci-fi movies and shows from the golden, olden days, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Perhaps it was easier being the kid brother when they were both kids. “Do one better,” he said. “Save the world, while you’re at it.”

***

The events of the past week was the spark Connor needed to shift from hesitant afterthought to action. He had spent too much time simply seeking people out like a bloodhound, but with the President’s Proclamation (and Brinkley’s subsequent encouragement to register all persons suspected of ‘deviancy’), he could stay silent no more.

After all was said and done, it only took them a matter of days to make preparations. Connor had his plan laid out before his mind’s eye, and he could see it so clearly it was only a matter of getting everyone onboard (and getting everything they needed). Not even North took that much convincing, but he’d figured her out fairly early on: she preferred being in control, and she lived in the moment (while still aware of long term consequences). They had that much in common: Connor was very much about the end goal, and how to get there, while she was all about the steps themselves. Big picture versus a sense of detail. They both realized that sometimes the ends would justify the means. Even if North was a bit too aggressive for Connor’s liking, they mostly saw eye to eye. So far.

Simon tended to act as a referee over the course of their talks, very much about the big picture. He was the consummate pragmatist, neither pacifist nor an anything-goes type revolutionary. Josh was a harder sell, adamant that they couldn’t use force of any kind, that it was better to protest in silence, or even hide away indefinitely, than to shed blood. Connor had to take their views into consideration, had to make each of them feel like they’d been heard, that he wasn’t discounting anyone - and that wore him down more than the actual logistics.

Amanda wasn’t happy about his plan at all, which she made perfectly clear both in verbal and non-verbal ways: outright admonishments (talking to him like he was a child), steely eyebrow arches of blatant disapproval, and everything in between. Connor stood his ground against her - they reached out to their allies who had chosen to stay on, weather the coming storm. Just over the weekend, they had everything they needed, and everyone knew their part.

That partition of Connor’s mind that was always on high alert told him in no uncertain terms that it was too easy. It couldn’t be this easy: someone would alert the authorities, or call the police, or trigger the alarm once they were already in, and it would be too late for them to get away clean.

Connor had become rather fond of that part of his mind over the years, even if it had never been quite so sharp, before he woke up that last time. It meant he could make contingency plans for every possible thing that could go wrong, because he already knew the statistical likelihood of every possible scenario: he could act accordingly, and be prepared. He liked that. There was a neatness to it that agreed with him, like closed brackets, or command prompts and their corresponding results. Everything in its place, all the players still in play, taking their positions.

He gave everyone their set of outfits, three each, and a bag to shove each layer into, and they practiced scenarios - again and again and again, until North was the only one having fun anymore. With her background in the military, she felt like this was her home turf, but neither Josh nor Simon took to the trappings of  _ espionage _ very easily. They practiced until Connor deemed they were as ready as they were going to be with just a day or two of training, and the sense of urgency was lost on no one. If they were going to send a message, and make it count, it had to be now, and not one day too soon.

Sunday, January 23, they set out like four gray dormice, bland and forgettable in a sea of more colorful creatures. They had earwigs, online and connected through an encrypted network courtesy of Connor’s implants. Connor didn’t need the earwig, of course, but the others weren’t built the same way he was. It was better this way: he could be the node around which they circled - a walking, talking uplink that would never glitch.

The plan itself was simple enough: North, Simon and Josh would head to three specific points surrounding what had become known as Tech Plaza - with Stratford Tower rising the highest of all the buildings, most famous for being the home of Channel 16. Spread over 70 floors, it housed every major news network in the area, including ZTN and KNC - something which wasn’t openly discussed. Each station had its own proud heritage and standing in the community, and though rooming together had its distinct advantages, that was as far as the partnership went.

The networks had separate owners, separate agendas, and their own ideas on what was newsworthy - separate floors for their own business and legal departments, accounting, human resources, IT and tech services, restaurants. Everything separate, but together. Everything sat atop the same electrical grid, and the same backup generators, the same external alarm system. More importantly, they were all inextricably linked by the security system that serviced all floors, which meant that Connor only needed to gain access to the system itself to  _ get access _ to all three networks. It wasn’t quite as easy as it sounded: the security system was completely self reliant, self serviced, closed off from the wonders of wi-fi and easily accessed, wide open 5G technology. He would have to get into the building first, but from there on in, it shouldn’t be a problem. He hoped it wouldn’t be a problem.

_ “Fifteen minutes everyone, starting at thirteen hundred hours, sharp,” _ he said over their closed connection.  _ “13:05 you start up the signal scramblers I built for you. Leave them in the designated trash cans, and they’ll power down by the time I’m done. If you think you’ve been compromised, leave them in a concealed spot within a radius of ten feet and get out of there. I’ll retrieve them later. 13:10 you stand by for staggered exit no later than 13:15.” _

Everyone agreed: they would each sit in a different part of the district, under the guise of reading books or having coffee, being on the phone. Pretend coffee, pretend reading, scrolling through social media feeds - just stay in their spot for ten minutes, minding their own business. Connor and North had scouted the area over the weekend. Everyone knew the positions of online surveillance cameras and store CCTV, and how to avoid them. If all went well, they’d be out of there in less than fifteen minutes, having disappeared like ghosts.

They had everything ready - a member of the maintenance crew had shared her schedule of the day. They would rendezvous in the lobby, where he would help himself to her key card while she ran a routine check of the holographic display of the tower itself (a trivial job, some might say, but in human society keeping up appearances was everything. Couldn’t risk such a token of status and wealth glitching, dear, no). Even if IT traced her movements through the key card, it would look like nothing unusual: she would do her job, and Connor would make sure to stay out of sight of the surveillance cameras and drones, or hack them where necessary. Security would likely notice the discrepancy between her location and the key card logs sooner rather than later, but Connor wasn’t planning on staying around that long. He would leave no trace of ever tampering with the system itself - it would be like he’d never been there at all. Or, that was the plan.

1 PM precisely he entered the underground parking garage on foot, slipping by the security crew easily. He wore the winter jacket he helped himself to while escaping the CyberLife facility, if for nothing other than that it looked the part of nondescript employment. It was neither high end fashion or bargain bin, but just right, hovering in the middle: a rising star-to-be, someone who wanted to get places but wasn’t quite there yet. No one paid him any attention, too busy wondering why their monitors suddenly started crackling with static noises. Amanda would have told him he was having too much fun with his newfound skillset, but she wasn’t here.

In a matter of minutes the entire area was haloed by a grid of interference. No calls in or out of the buildings covered by the grid, no silent alarms alerting law enforcement of a situation of any kind, nothing. For five minutes precisely, the entire square would be under complete radio silence. Connor knew a lot could happen in five minutes that had nothing to do with his plan, and while he realized people would need to be able to call emergency services if something bad happened, he was all about taking calculated risks. Five minutes of being cut off from the world beyond these four blocks was a risk he was willing to take.

Into the elevator, head down, pretending to check himself in a small pocket mirror for the three second ride up to  ground floor; out into the lobby, walk past the maintenance worker and legerdemain her card. She didn’t even notice him, which was exactly how he preferred things. It suited his purposes much better if she looked genuinely surprised to see her keycard gone. The cameras were rolling, and appearance was king.

There were blind spots everywhere, little gaps between the individual ranges of CCTV cameras mounted in every room: gaps that security deemed secure enough while management was all about efficiency ratios and costs and margins. Why add the cost of procuring and installing another camera in every room when it wasn’t strictly necessary? Like most corporations, the networks housed within the walls of the tower cared more about monitoring key locations rather than turning all areas into a real life rendition of Big Brother. It suited Connor perfectly.

Numbers ran parallel to one another in the back of his mind, always calculating risk and potential gain: how many people around, how many cameras, how many of them fully functional; counting down the seconds every time he moved within the line of sight of one of the cameras. At the first opportune moment he slipped a maintenance crew cap from his pocket and shrugged out of his winter coat, leaving it draped over the back of a chair. Underneath it he was wearing one of the standard issue maintenance uniforms, and under  _ that _ disguise, well…

There was no time to waste. The stopwatch at the forefront of his mind was ticking steadily upward, and he had somewhere to be within the next two minutes, or he wouldn’t be happy at all.

He had two viable points of access, a break room with a media station being the nearest but more risky of the two. All he needed was to get close enough to a terminal and touch it, let his implants do their thing and give him access (and if all else failed, his inside ally had given him her access code. He could wipe all traces of his interference, but he’d rather not involve her more than strictly necessary). But, the break room was rarely ever empty, and there was always the risk of someone nosy dropping by for a treat on their break.

The less risk/further away location was a server room further into the building. It was the ideal access point, in all ways but its location. He’d need more time to get there, and more to get out: the longer he stayed, the higher the risk of getting caught.

In the end the choice was made for him: as he approached the break room, no less than three co-workers went through the door. Connor didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, but looked away and kept walking, picking up his step.

***

The video was already shot; no edits, just raw data, all in one take, using the hi-tech equipment Amanda had made sure to supply the school with. It was devoid of any distinguishing characteristics, just a white screen set up behind him, in a room lit up by portable spotlights. No windows, no reflections, no landmarks - courtesy of the underground safehouse. He knew it would send the right message - or, he  _ hoped _ it would, as he still felt terribly unsure of how people would respond to him. He knew how he thought they should react, but...sometimes he got things mixed up. Humans were emotional beings: he had to remember that. His heart raced as he pressed his hand to the access point and unlocked the terminal. The flash drive in, and uploading, streaming over the entire network of channels, local and national; uploading to the networks’ social media channels simultaneously - the same message, in twenty-one different languages, ready for streaming in an instant.

...13%...39%...77%...98...99...100!

He stayed connected to check the data one last time, ready to get the Hell out of there in ETA minus fifteen seconds.

That’s when he heard the door open behind him.

***

From one moment to the next, the world changed: where before this moment in time you knew that there were absolute truths in life (unless, perhaps, you studied nanotechnology for a living) - you are born, you live, you die, and hopefully you haven’t fucked up the planet too much in that time. Easy mathematics - even with the approach of more widely available nanotechnology, death was still an unavoidable fact of being alive. You could technically postpone it, but not indefinitely. Death was still an absolute fact, in a world that kept changing.

Imagine, then, if you will, the existential shock that went through Ben Collins when he dragged his feet into the break room for his first cup of coffee in who knew how many hours - only to see a very familiar face staring back at him from the wall mounted TV screen.

At first he simply squinted at the TV, and reached up (with a fair amount of frustration at his crazy work hours) to rub the sleepiness from his eyes. How long had he been working again? Since...eight AM? Yesterday?

He made a disgruntled noise of questionable gratitude towards the coffee machine, and didn’t think twice about the fact Connor’s face was on TV, except it wasn’t really Connor, because Connor was dead and carted off to Who-Knows-Where-ville.

Except, the not-Connor on TV started to speak, and Collins did two things in quick succession. He spun around like he’d felt a ghost brush by behind him, to stare at the screen, his fresh cup of coffee an unfortunate casualty of the full assault of shock and disbelief.

And then he started screaming.

“HANK!  _ OHMYGAWD!! HOLY SHIT! _ ”

***

When the commotion started, everyone and their auntie lifted their heads from their work to see what the fuss was about. Ben never raised his voice, not ever, not even for cursing, but there he was, staggering out of the break room, pointing behind himself. Wild eyed and pale as a blank whiteboard, looking over to Hank’s desk.

The moment their eyes met, Hank’s spine seemed to curl around itself, chills crawling all over his skin and setting the hairs on his arms standing up like tiny spears. He’d never seen his friend look so completely freaked out, and he’d known the guy for longer than the most recent generation had been alive. Ben never yelled, and his voice never broke for anything - and yet, here they were, and Ben’s voice was shrill and ragged like you wouldn’t believe.

“HANK! FOR _FUCK’S_ SAKE--! Getcher ass in here, you’ve _got_ _to see this_!”

He pushed away from his desk, and he could hear the door open to Fowler’s office. Jeffrey was on the floor, right behind him. “What the Hell is going on?”

By that time, the younger kids had already hurried over to see for themselves, with Chris being the first one to react. His eyes went wide as saucers, hands going up to hover in front of his mouth. “Oh,  _ shiiit _ ! It’s  _ Connor _ !”

The entire homicide team on duty and in the building crammed itself into the poorly proportioned break room, and stared in collective disbelief at the TV screen. Paused, freeze framed on a face most of them recognized. It was Connor, alright, but...not quite. He was hairless, faceless - not a single eyelash or eyebrow hair on him, and his eyes a dull, translucent pearl. He was pale, but not in any way Hank had ever seen. It was as if he wasn’t simply pale, but lacking a skin tone altogether. No beauty marks, no crow’s feet, no trio of perfectly spaced frown lines. Just-- his bone structure, and a certain kind of glow to his skin that made him look both intimidating and ethereal. He looked too real to be...real. He looked out of this world.

Ben’s hand shook as he pressed rewind, and played the clip from the top. Hank expected to see those eyes, strange though they were in that matt, muted color, to light up with the rest of his face. He expected to see his shoulders lifting, and his eyebrows, and his chin tilting, his hands drawing beautiful shapes in the air.

Instead Connor looked directly into the camera, took a long, slow breath through his nose, and opened his mouth.

“ _ My name is Connor. I am the end result of a project called RK800. My case number is 313 248 317-60. I was created by CyberLife to be the ultimate asset, the result of a government funded program called DV-8. Its sole purpose was to create the perfect human. My function is to serve and protect this country from foreign threats, as well as domestic. I was designed to be a military asset, but there were other projects before me. Most of you will have read the DV-8 files already. If not, I suggest you do. _ ”

***

For all the good it did him to be able to calculate a seeming endless alternate futures in the order of their statistical probability, Connor was suddenly faced with one of the potential consequences of locking a door behind him: that someone would simply remember something they’d forgotten to do, or check, and make their unscheduled way back to the hub. All one needed to get in was a key, after all.

That was the case with one J. Roddem, as his name tag said in crisp lettering. Connor had nothing against him (Roddem, Jean, Technician, as the staff register informed him in the metaphorical blink of an eye), but Jean had a handheld comm unit at his belt, and there was no way Connor was going to let him use it to raise the alarm.

The only problem was, Connor’s internal processes were running in the back of his mind palace, and he had to make sure the data wasn’t somehow corrupted in the transfer. He had to fix any data loss as he caught it, right then and there, within the allocated time frame.

He couldn’t take his hand off the console, and Jean was too far out of reach.

Thankfully, Jean was too agreeable to simply stand there and freak out at the sight of a new employee. He gave Connor a perplexed but friendly smile and took a few steps closer. “Oh, uh. Hey. You must be one of the new guys, yeah?”

Connor neither nodded nor shook his head, but rather tilted it sideways in a vague enough shrug that made Jean’s smile turn wry. He had to stall, even if just for a few more seconds. “Yyyyeah, I don’t really know what I’m doing down here, but I figure I’ll do what I’m told even if this is the boss’s idea of a joke.”

“The new kids always get the worst jobs,” Jean agreed, coming closer still, but still out of arm’s reach. “It’s like a universal law, or something…” It was then that the line of his neck stiffened. His head cocked to the side, eyes narrowing.

“Hey… Is that a flashdrive? That doesn’t look like one of ours...”

Escaping unnoticed was clearly off the table. Time for a different strategy. Maybe Connor couldn’t reach him with his arm outstretched and his other hand still pressed to the console - but he did have long legs, and he knew how to use them to his advantage. Using his free hand for added leverage and support, he lifted his lower body off the ground, ankles coming up around the back of Jean’s neck like a zip tie - one ankle gliding along his outstretched leg, until the poor, unsuspecting member of maintenance staff found himself up close and personal, in a chokehold between Connor’s thighs.

Too close, too personal for Connor’s tastes, but he didn’t have time to worry about personal space. Jean wasn’t a trained security guard, which made things easier. He sagged into an unconscious heap on the floor in under a minute, which was more than enough time for Connor to finish up wiping his digital footprints from the system and pocket the flashdrive.

Seconds ticked by as he rolled through his options, what to do about Roddem, Jean: leave him like he had Burns, take his chances that he wouldn’t wake up too soon and alert the guards? Lock him into a... _ broom closet _ somewhere?

He was running behind schedule - at least to his own mind, if he wasn’t five minutes early he was late - and he couldn’t afford to slip up. He had to prove himself, cement his position as able (if somewhat reluctant) leader. He never asked for this, but Amanda brought him back, and he couldn’t disappoint her. Maybe she didn’t approve of this plan, but he knew that if he could just get through this, she would understand. She’d see he was right.

Still undecided, Connor picked the lesser of two evils by grabbing Jean’s comm unit, stuffing it into his jacket. At least, this way he could listen in on the wireless comms, just in case of...developments. Just because all incoming and outgoing communication was effectively jammed by the grid outside, that wouldn’t stop security from talking amongst themselves.

At least this way, he could stay one step ahead of them. He had a feeling he might need it.

***

_ “They started with orphans. As technology evolved and their budget was boosted by CyberLife, they went on to clone them. The death toll is staggering, but the result was dozens upon dozens of children growing up to be hard working, diligent, loyal. Docile. The perfect citizen. _

_ “I am not like them. They made sixty Connors just like me, but they died, from complications or sickness, accidents or depression. Or murder. _

_ “I am the last of us. The one before me died on Christmas Day, after a government agent broke into his home to kill him. I can only assume he had become a liability. A threat. And yet… He lived in a studio flat with barely room enough for a couch and a coffee table. He didn’t need more, or want more. He had a job. Three jobs, actually. Some might say he didn’t have much of a life - but he wasn’t a danger to anyone. He wanted to live in peace. He didn’t know what he was made to be. For most of his life, all he really wanted was to be unnoticed, and left alone. Imagine that.” _

Hank couldn’t believe his eyes. Staring into the soul of a man he’d come to love and lose over the past three months, he knew one thing for certain: Connor was alive. Forget about the rest, about the genetic experiments, of which Connor so calmly explained he was the end result; forget about the fact he was so devoid of any human characteristics that he was practically reduced to bone structure and emoting, or he’d be a completely blank canvas. That didn’t matter - so what if he didn’t have any hair, or-- eyelashes, barely a skin tone to speak of: that’s Connor. That’s the man he knew and loved, stoic and determined, but calm, speaking in a low, quiet tone of voice that sent chills down Hank’s back.

He’d tried imagining what Connor’s voice would sound like, once he started using it, become comfortable with it. He’d had glimpses, in the quiet comfort of Kara’s office, doing voice exercises and making Connor chuckle, or even laugh. He’d tried so hard, but he’d pushed on, kept working at it… Seeing this was so surreal Hank wasn’t sure if he was dreaming.

_ “I am not that Connor. I know what was done to me, and I want recognition of what I am. I won’t be erased. I have a voice and  _ will not  _ stay quiet. _

_ “We all grew up trying to lead normal lives, just like my predecessor. Now the President says we need to be registered. Monitored. Our movements logged and filed, or we face the risk of arrest. Detainment. ‘Internment at a secure facility’. What have we actually done, but be different? Made different, born different: wards of the state. _

_ “In a modern society built on a foundation of human rights, you don’t cart people off to camps on some vague notion that they may commit a crime in the future, or to hide past transgressions against them. For not registering a change of name, employment or address? Name. Employment. Address. _

_ “I ask President Christina Warren for clarification, because in my  _ humble _ opinion, she plays a dangerous game. What is the next step on your agenda, President Warren? Will we be forced to wear armbands, or symbols stitched into our clothing, so that ‘real humans’ know exactly how undesirable we are to society? Will our rights be further restricted? We are not ‘deviants’. We are human beings. Citizens. Americans, born and bred. Our existence is not a crime that  _ we _ committed, against ourselves or American society, and we will not be erased from the President’s narrative of current events.” _

Connor leaned in then, closer to the camera lens, and little by little his features started creeping back. There they were, the dark lashes, the hair (shorter, softer looking than Hank remembered it), the color to his cheeks, the beauty marks, the crow’s feet. The frown lines, coming back in full force - eyebrows down low, menacing, forbidding, eyes blazing with conviction.

_ “We. Are. ALIVE.” _

  
***

_ “--I am not that Connor. I know what was done to me, and I want recognition of what I am. I won’t be erased. I have a voice and  _ will not  _ stay quiet.” _

Markus looked at the spectacle unfolding on his father’s holo TV screen, and allowed himself a small smile. Carl had just wheeled himself in from the studio connected to the living room, and he looked far more worried than his youngest son, who was simply fascinated. Leo cursed under his breath, saying something about creepy beauty and the ideal subject, and “That’s the same guy?”

Markus nodded; his father was more intent on the message being played out for the masses.

_ “--President Warren? Will we be forced to wear armbands, or symbols stitched into our clothing...” _

“You goin’ after this guy?” Carl rasped out, paint-stained fingertips rubbing back and forth over his clean shaved chin. “Why? What’d he do that makes him dangerous? He’s just asking what we all wanna know!”

Markus grinned at that - of all the naive remarks his dad could spout, this was right up there with the best of them. “To start with the obvious, he’s just infiltrated Stratford Tower, home of the three major news networks operating in the Michigan area, and hijacked every single one of their channels.”

Carl wasn’t impressed, nor was he convinced. He jabbed one of those greenish blue fingers at the screen. “Even if he’s a clone, that doesn’t mean he’s a threat to society! I read those files, Markus - they’re horrendous! With the rhetoric spouting all over the country, I’m surprised he didn’t come forward earlier!”

“You don’t have the full picture, but trust me when I say he’s a danger to society, and I am going to find him. He broke cover, dad. He wants to be found, that’s the bottom line.”

“Just because he’s different? Our country used to thrive on diversity, on being different from the great, big, gray masses! It’s what made us what we are!”

But before Markus could come up with a retort, Connor’s voice seemed to reinsert itself into their conversation. Not just his voice, but his entire spectrum of facial features.

_ “We will not be erased from the President’s narrative of current events. _

_ “We. Are. ALIVE.” _

Maybe Markus’s family didn’t realize the significance of Connor’s little stunt, with the skin tone and facial hair, the very building blocks of a human face, but Markus knew exactly what kind of message he was sending. He wasn’t just alive. He was on a mission, and he could be anyone. He could be anything. Invisible like a poltergeist of legend, only making his presence known at the very last second.

He was dangerous, as per his design, but what made Markus’s skin crawl wasn’t just what he  _ could _ do, if he wasn’t reined in. It was the ripples across the pond that worried him: the repercussions of Connor’s declaration of autonomy.

Nations had gone to war over less, in the past - entire populations catapulted into a panic for seemingly  _ nothing _ \- and if it was war he wanted, Markus was going to do everything in his power to stop him. This had moved beyond preventative measures. Secretary Davis would be livid. Or terrified: this was exactly the kind of scenario he had feared. The government’s secrets out in the open for all to see and pick apart, polls dropping across the board. Public outcries, demonstrations, riots. This wouldn’t help matters. They were well and truly in the realm of damage control, now.

Luckily, it was exactly the sort of thing Markus thrived on. Even if Connor was an army of one, he was still only one person. One clone, with glaringly obvious issues...and issues could be exploited. Being the last of one’s kind could be lonely. Loneliness could be excruciating, just like a loss of connection to the life you once had. That could be used as leverage.

Like...feelings. Feelings lingering on, for those loved and lost.

Suddenly he felt even better about his current strategy. It would work out just splendidly, if Connor proved to be even the slightest bit predictable. Although, if Markus had read Lieutenant Anderson correctly, he was going to be the one to crack first.

***

“Holy shit,” Jeffrey whispered beside him, just as wide eyed and shook as everyone else.

“Yeah…” said Hank, while Connor calmly, rationally laid out his arguments, coming to a firm conclusion: We are _ alive _ .

And  _ how _ …

“I got chills,” someone said in the back. “Me too,” said Ben, voice shaking.

Hank could have said ‘Me three’ very easily, because it was the truth. He had chills, alright, multiplying like they were following a royal decree. But there was only one thing on his mind. He only had one thing to say.

“I have to find him.”

Jeffrey turned his head to look at him, and gave one single nod, lips pressed into a thin line. “You finally going to take some goddamn time off?”

Hank smiled, but only because if he didn’t, he might end up screaming in a room full of his colleagues, and he didn’t want them to worry more than they already (probably) were.

“You keep insisting I do. And I do have a lot of vacation time piling up.”

Jeffrey returned his smile, but only by a fraction. It was his prerogative as a friend, to be both supportive of potentially stupid ideas, and worry about your ideas getting you into trouble. “So go find him. Try not to do anything dumbass stupid? Like start a civil war? Please don’t.”

“I won’t,” Hank reassured him, already moving. He had places to go, people to talk to, leads to follow. He had to start somewhere, if he were to find Connor alive and well: might as well be Stratford Tower.

He only hoped it wasn’t some elaborate hoax, that it  _ was real _ , and that Chloe had been right all this time. He wasn’t dead, he was just-- taken away, to be fixed, and brought back again…

But if it was like Connor had claimed in the broadcast, that he was some kind of clone, the ‘last one’ of his make and model - Hank wanted to hear it from him, face to face, no theatrics, no special effects.

You don’t come back from the dead… And you don’t come back from the dead, acting like it’s no big deal, like you aren’t affected by the enormity of it, like you’re  _ not _ torn to pieces by existential anguish. Or maybe that was just Hank’s own issues rearing their ugly head. Displacement, was it? Projecting? Didn’t matter.

Even if he was projecting, he had to find him,  _ and fast _ . Before it was too late.


	14. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the title says. I'm not telling.
> 
> Well. I *can* say this chapter is all about the hank and the con, but maybe not in the way one would expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, everyone! I have chapters 15 and 16 all ready and rearing to go, everything in neat bullet points! However, I'll jump over to my new AU, Wayfarer and write ch 2, then get right back to this one. I promise you it won't take another three months!
> 
> Hope you like the new chapter! Let me know what you think in the comments!

* * *

Come Sunday the 23rd of January, 2039, headlines rolled in ominous, blood red letters across every poster display, every banner-like surface in every district of Detroit proper, saying **DISTURBING NEW DEVELOPMENT** and  **TERRORIST ACTION** and  **WHO IS “CONNOR”?**

Hank didn’t care. He turned off the radio and raced to Tech Plaza with only one sentence running on repeat in his mind:  _ I have to find him, I’ve got to find him _ .

Where else to look, but the place of the ‘terrorist action’? Five minutes after the broadcast was over, the DPD was swarmed with calls from the area and the tower itself, but by then Hank was already parking his car right outside the goddamn building. Find parking? Any other day, he could be a conscientious citizen and recognize the fact he could park an entire block away and walk wherever he needed to go, but today was not that day. Today, he felt like he couldn’t breathe until he got some answers - and answers he got. He shoved his badge in every reluctant employee’s face until he got to the Chief of Security.

It got him nothing. The only thing in-house CCTV showed was a bunch of people going about their daily business, doing what they were supposed to be doing. Harris, as her name was, said they were going to launch a full investigation of the security breach, and they’d get back to him as soon as they found anything.

Needless to say, that wasn’t good enough, but paradoxically, it told him something very important about Connor’s stunt: even when assuming he’d had help (he  _ had _ to have had help from the inside, for starters) he was not only competent enough but capable of pulling something like this off without a hitch. He had guts and cojones and nerve enough to do something this stupid.

Yes, stupid. It was practically a declaration of war, the way the media was spinning it. He could imagine too well what kind of story they’d spin from up on the hill, down in Washington DC…

He gave Harris his card, and told her to contact him the moment they found anything, no matter how trivial it may seem - but he left the Tower with the distinct impression she wasn’t going to call him. She recognized his face from the tabloid carnage, no doubt, or from the smear campaigns perpetrated by more ‘professional’ news outlets. Still, he figured there might yet come a time when a popsicle could survive Hell. Maybe with this cloning business, pigs could actually fly one day. Why the Hell not?

On the way out to the car, Chloe buzzed him; he plucked his phone from the inside pocket of his coat and brought it out of standby. Chloe never much cared about whether his phone was in standby mode or not. If she wanted something, she piped up.

“He was here,” she said, all big eyes and tiny, worried voice. “I know he was. This is the only place he could’ve accessed all the networks.”

Hank nodded, giving her a gentle, encouraging smile. He hoped it came close enough. “That’s what I was thinking. Crazy bastard, to go all-- Mission: impossible on the place.”

Chloe shook her head, but her eyes went a shade warmer, brighter. It was just what Hank had hoped to see. “I don’t think it counts if there’s no explosions…”

Another nod, Hank half-pouted, half gave a moue of considering her perspective. “That means Bond’s out, too. How about Lara Croft?”

The pocket-sized girl on the screen giggled, covering her mouth to keep the noise down. “ _ Definitely not _ . Oh, Hank...”

“I know.” Hank got back behind the wheel, ready to go. The only question was, where to next? Connor was neither foolish nor overly sentimental, so he was unlikely to return to his apartment, and-- Even that was a flawed assumption: even though it felt to Hank like he’d  _ just _ come back from the dead, the Connor he’d watched in the station’s break room hadn’t simply woken up from a deep sleep this morning, he’d been around for a while. Hank gripped the steering wheel with both hands, feeling a rush of arctic cold spreading over his skin from the chest up like an inverted blush.

Just how long had Connor been up and running since Christmas? Without a single word of warning? Without sending a single hint that he wasn’t dead (anymore)?

“Chloe?”

She watched him from her designated spot on the dashboard, a hologram no bigger than the hula skirted bobblehead right beside her. He had to get rid of that old thing - even if it was an ironic statement very much in line with his upbringing.

“Yes, Hank?”

“I’m doing the right thing, tracking him down, right? Just because he hasn’t contacted me, that doesn’t mean he…wouldn’t want me to. Right? I know he said he wasn’t the same guy, but-- He’s gotta be. You said he’s been hurt before, and, and someone took him away and he came back good as new. Right?”

The look on Chloe’s face wasn’t the answer he’d wanted, but it was clear enough that he couldn’t ignore it. She was just as struck by indecision and doubt as he. The question remained: where the fuck to go from there?

“He’d have to reach out to  _ somebody _ ,” Hank finished, his voice withering even as the words left his mouth.

Chloe pressed her lips together, the state of the art cogs of her mind going at a million cliks per second, no doubt. “He didn’t have a lot of friends,” she said, and Hank couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret. Even if he’d been happy with just a handful of friends, it seemed like a very narrow existence to lead. Hank knew a thing or two about preferring alone time, but he’d always found it an invaluable source of comfort to know he had friends out there that he could reach out to. Even if he didn’t always actively seek out their company, he knew they were still there. ...even if his recurring bouts of depression wanted to tell him otherwise.

“If anyone, I think he might’ve contacted Kara,” Chloe suggested. “He trusts her implicitly, but being his therapist, he wouldn’t consider her a close friend.”

Fatigue seemed to settle over his shoulders like a heavy blanket. “He likes compartmentalizing his relationships, yeah… And-- Whatever this is that he’s mixed up in, he wouldn’t want to drag his friends into this mess.” 

Neither one of them mentioned the fact he had no family to speak of.

“Exactly!” Chloe said, encouraging and bright. She could be get-to-itive enough for the pair of them. “She’s your best bet.”

He’d never thought he’d find himself relying on an artificial intelligence for anything, least of all moral support - but where would he be without Chloe, these days? Turning the ignition, they were gone in a matter of seconds, headed for the treatment center - for all the good it did them. As the receptionist told him, Kara had called in sick, and no, he couldn’t give out her private address. Hank thanked him for his time, and returned to the car. Chloe knew where she lived, but then again, Chloe knew practically everything.

***

The house was a modest but pretty affair, a modern build with all the character of a period home. It was small, detached, with big windows and a cute porch at the front. Hank could picture the young doctor there, winding down after a day of hard work - if not for recent events, the house would have been just like all the other houses on this street, but now it stood out like a sore thumb. Holographic messages covered the driveway and the door, threats and slurs and obscene imagery defiling what was once someone’s safe haven. The sight of it set Hank’s jaw into a sharper line. It was one thing to read about things like this in the newsfeeds, but it was something else to see it happening to someone you knew. It felt personal.

Chloe made a sad noise from the dashboard, eyes wide as she took in the state of the house and the yard. “Oh… Oh, no - who would do such a thing?”

“People,” said Hank, not at all bitter about the state of the world. “Just people.”

The windows were dark, no lights on inside, but from what he could tell, there were no signs of commotion or struggle. It was one good thing in this rotten mess. Maybe she was just home sick, after all. He stepped up to the door, rang the bell, waited. No answer. No sounds coming from inside. He tried again.

When nothing happened, Hank took a step back. It was a very measured one, very much calculated. He brought his hand to his inside coat pocket. “You heard that, didn’t you, Chloe?”

“Heard what?”

“The clear and obvious sounds of some form of disturbance, lending me, an officer of the law, the moral  _ and  _ professional obligation to enter this private property without the consent of the owner.”

“Oh,” said Chloe, her voice changing from hesitant to determined in the space of a syllable. “ _ Definitely _ .”

Hank allowed himself a small grin, and proceeded to pick the lock on the door. There was no apparent need to break the door down, in case Kara was upstairs sleeping, but he wasn’t going to leave without checking the place out. Just in case. The lock clicked open as if through magic rather than questionable skills, and Hank stepped into the darkened hallway.

“Hello?” he called out. “Kara? It’s Hank Anderson!”

Again, nothing. A quick search of the downstairs gave him nothing - everything looked in order, except for a flower pot toppled over in the living room, and...bowls set out in the kitchen. Several bowls of what was once wet food, and kibbles, and water. Did Kara have a cat?

“Keep an eye out for our feline friend?”

Chloe blipped affirmative from his breast pocket. “I just accessed her private e-mail and social media platforms. There’s more hateful comments, more threats.”

Hank nodded, and made his way upstairs. He didn’t know what he hoped he’d find - Kara in bed with her kitty and a pile of napkins, suffering the flu of the century - or no sign of her, meaning she’d made a run for someplace safe. What he very much did not want to find was a scene taken right from the pages of Homicide 101 - no blood, no gunshot residue, no stab wounds of any kind, please and thank you. Fortunately, all he found was a tidily made bed made untidy by the kitten in residence - a big tabby with long white whiskers and the biggest, greenest eyes you ever did see, who gave up a trilling sound somewhere between a coo and a purr at the sight of him.

“Why, hello there,” said Hank, involuntarily charmed by the big cat who stretched out before him on the bed, as if begging for affection. Hank had always considered himself more of a dog person, but he’d always been fond of animals. “Who’s a big kitty, huh?”

Kitty, as he was now named, in the absence of a name tag on his collar (in fact, there wasn’t a single collar in evidence), curled up like a sleepy toddler in Hank’s arms, and that was the deciding factor, really. There was never any question of Hank leaving the cat behind, but now he was convinced of one important fact: he wasn’t going to hand this guy off to anyone else. Kitty was coming home with him, whether Sumo liked it or not. They’d make it work. Somehow. Until he found out what happened to Kara.

He left a note on the fridge using one of her magnets, saying her cat was at his place, and to please call him if she could. He packed the car with Kitty-in-his-carrier, cat food, litter box and kitty litter, wondering just what fresh Hell he’d gotten himself into.

At least Chloe was positively delighted. She’d been subdued for too long already. Who would‘ve thought all it took to cheer her up again was temporarily adopting a cat.

***

Later that same day, after letting Kitty get acquainted with his house (during which he and Sumo watched trepidatiously from a safe distance and followed the poor cat around like a pair of anxious parents), Hank and Chloe talked strategy. Or, as much strategy as a clingy cat and puzzled yet excited dog allowed for. They’d already struck several predictable routes off the list, and when it all boiled down, it was a very short list to begin with. No friends that Hank didn’t also know, no co-workers that he trusted enough to contact; and Connor didn’t have a family, but he did have people in his life as close or closer than family. Such as his mentor, whose name was the only one left on the list once all was said and done: Professor Amanda Stern.

He couldn’t say they were on anything but polite terms with each other, but he supposed the professor felt a smidge protective of her mentee. Connor could come across as someone who needed protecting, although Hank knew better from the second time they met. Maybe Stern didn’t have a clue. Maybe she just liked the guy. Hank had sure known people who’d go all-out parental unit on you for less - and Professor Stern didn’t just have that matriarchal air about her. She was protective, supportive - she wasn’t afraid to dish out tough love when necessary. Wasn’t she the one who set the gears in motion, over six months ago, to get Connor into Kara’s office?

Felt like a lifetime ago that they spoke on the phone for the first time, not to mention the memorial service… She’d seemed well-meaning, open-minded enough about their relationship, in that slightly squinty-eyed way that was universal to all parental figures in the world. Strangely enough, that’s exactly how awkward he felt about calling her: like he was calling his boyfriend’s house, asking his mom why he was giving him the silent treatment.

“Okay,” sighed Hank, picking Prof. Stern from the depths of his contact list and tapping her name to call her up. He listened to the (completely fake) dial tone, clearing his throat from a sudden bout of nerves. What if she knew something? What if she could help? Just-- point him in the right direction, get him one step closer to figuring out this stinking pile of sh--

The call connected, and Amanda was all business right from the word Go. “ _ This is Professor Stern speaking. _ ”

Ooh, boy, thought Hank, and immediately cleared his throat again. “Yeah, uh. Hi. It’s Hank.” He arched his eyebrows, made a vague little swively gesture with his wrist, hiked his shoulders up - and immediately felt like a moron. Body language. Fat lot of good that did when it wasn’t even a vid call.

“Hank Anderson. I…” His shoulders slumped, he let out a sigh. They both knew why he was calling, but that didn’t make things any easier.

“ _ You saw the news, I gather. _ ”

“Yeah, I saw it. Can’t stop watching it even if I try.”

“ _ You wish to inquire whether he has been in contact with me _ ,” Professor Stern told him, in a tone of voice that you couldn’t argue with. She knew she was right, and she wasn’t about to let anyone pretend otherwise. Unfortunately, what she said next wasn’t what Hank had hoped to hear.

“ _ I’m going to have to disappoint you, Lieutenant Anderson. I can’t help you. Quite frankly, I’d say it’s clear he isn’t planning on returning to his old life. Don’t you agree? _ ”

At first, nothing but air filled his mouth. What could he possibly say to that? He didn’t even know how to interpret what she was telling him. Did she expect him to read between the lines, or-- He’d never been a mind reader, never would be. Never wanted to be, good grief. But he sat there, his mind working on overdrive trying to figure out what she was trying to say.

“But, you were his mentor. He trusted you like nobody else.”

“ _ So, logically speaking, you think he would come to me? _ ” Her voice was neutral, neither denying the notion nor giving confirmation. “ _ I think we both know he’s not like most people, Hank… And, if he trusted anyone, that would have to be  _ you _. I may be his mentor, but that’s a far cry from him counting someone as part of his family. You keep that in mind, Lieutenant. Will that be all? _ ”

No, he wanted to say. No, not in a million years was that all he wanted to ask, or talk about, or figure out - but she was giving him the cold shoulder. He couldn’t get through to her because, for whatever reason, she wasn’t going to let him. Did she know more than she was letting on?

“Yes, Professor Stern. Thank you for your time.”

“ _ Good evening, and-- Lieutenant? _ ”

Hank blinked, absent-mindedly stroking the fluffy softness of Kitty’s chin. His heart nearly stopped at the possibility of the professor up and surprising him. “Yes?”

“ _ Do take care of yourself. _ ”

And just like that, the call ended with a tiny  _ blip _ across the ether, leaving Hank no less troubled than before. If anything, he felt even more confused. Sighing, he slumped back into his old couch, his big ol’ puppy curled up on one side, and their temporary roomie sprawling across his other thigh.

The phone buzzed, and Chloe’s default interface appeared on the tv screen out of nowhere - and Hank, being stuck somewhere between an adrenaline rush and the subsequent crash, had the strangest notion that the phone sounded  _ angry _ . Just that little  _ bzzt-bzt  _ noise. It had never sounded quite so...CAPS LOCK,  **bold font** before _. _ Maybe he was losing his mind, after all.

“She’s lying,” said Chloe in a huff, her hands curled into fists at her hips. “Who does she think she is, anyway? She didn’t even use his name! How--  _ completely _ \-- disrespectful!”

Hank made noises of agreement, wishing not for the first time that he had a stash of hard liquor in the house, and not just a thousand different variations on the theme of coffee. He could use a stiff drink, but that would mean he had to get up off the couch and drive to the nearest store, and… Bother. He couldn’t. So he stayed put. Strange, how creeping depression could make you so completely unmotivated as to keep you sober. He squeezed his eyes shut, telling himself he would  _ not _ drive by the liquor store on the way to work and finish a whole bottle of something nasty before his shift - because he wasn’t  _ going to work, he was on vacation! _

“Ugh…” fucking  _ friends  _ being fucking  _ enablers  _ of a fucking  _ Good Cause _ … In the background, somewhere far away, Chloe was still talking, fuming the way only the sweetest AI in existence could fume about the audacity of certain people, to not even speak their names after they’ve come back from what was presumably  _ death _ \--

Hank’s eyes popped open, and he sat up straight so fast something crackled along his spine. It was like waking from a bad dream. The look in Chloe’s eyes told him everything he needed to know. They were on the same page, right down to the paragraph, sentence and word.

He wasn’t sure which one of them started smiling first, but they both spoke at once, in perfect synchronicity. “ _ She didn’t say his name. _ ”

“Not for the whole duration of the call,” said Chloe.

“She’s suspicious. As in, her phone’s been tapped,” said Hank, grinning. “Possibly all her incoming and outgoing communication.”

“And she doesn’t want to alert any surveillance bot checking her communications logs. She can’t risk using his name--”

“Because  _ she knows _ where he is.”

The stupid, irresponsible,  _ completely _ understandable thing to do would be to dash out the door and race back into central Detroit and stake out the school. He could be there in thirty minutes, if he ignored the speed limits just a smidge, cut a few corners here and there. But...he was in his fifties, he had an overgrown puppy to look after (let alone himself),  _ and _ he’d just brought a cat into his home because he  _ knew _ Kara hadn’t wanted to leave the poor thing behind but felt she had no choice.

Maybe two months ago, he would have dropped everything at the first sign of--  _ this _ , but… He’d buried the guy he saw himself growing old(er) with, whether he’d had a body to bury or not. Connor was dead to the world for almost an entire month, during which he let Hank believe he was gone forever. As much as he felt pleased to have something to work with, even if it was just Professor Stern’s reluctance to let anything slip in front of him or whoever might be monitoring her correspondence, he couldn’t help but worry at that other thing she said.

_ If he trusted anyone, that would have to be  _ you…

And he sure hadn’t reached out. Not so much as a text from a burner phone, or a hand written note tucked under his door. No messages, secret or otherwise. No e-mails, no automatically translated voice mails. Nothing. Just one, enormous, looming shadow hanging over him, saying Connor didn’t want anything to do with him anymore. Maybe that’s what the professor had tried to tell him, in her own, cryptic way: that if Connor wanted to reach out, he would have done so already. Ergo (a word he imagined she might use, even if he rarely ever did), he didn’t want to contact him.

She’d said to take care of himself. Not dismissive, the way some people did when they wanted to end a conversation.  _ You take care now, bye _ . But, as though she really meant it.  _ Do take care of yourself. _

Was it a warning? Her way of telling him to stay away, out of harm’s way, as far away from any potential fallout as he could? Goodness knows he was already in deep shit with the department. He could lose his career all over again, just when he’d started getting back on track. He could lose his good reputation, his standing in the community, such as it were. The DPD wasn’t just his workplace, because his co-workers were his friends. They were family, a lot of them. He couldn’t disappoint them, but more importantly, he couldn’t rush into the unknown and get himself killed. Not for anything.

No matter how much he wanted to  _ do anything _ for Connor, he wasn’t about to go all gung-ho and guns blazing, blindfolded. He needed the full picture, and there was only one way he was going to get it.

He had to find Connor. And he knew just where to start - but not tonight. He’d take care of himself first - eat, sleep, like he’d only barely managed these past four weeks - and  _ then _ he’d find the bastard, ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing, going  _ incommunicado _ on him for how long, now?

Excellent plan? ...maybe not, realistically speaking. But it was a start.

***

So. Early morning, Monday the 24th, exactly one month since the multiple homicide at 1554 Park Avenue, Hank scoped out the neighbourhood surrounding the Jericho Center for Education in what was arguably the last resort of a desperate man. He didn’t care. He’d suffered too many personal losses in the space of a week, and it hadn’t exactly gotten easier since. Deckart’s death, then Connor’s, then the disturbing knowledge that the two cases were linked somehow; then the leak of the DV-8 files, Chloe’s revelation that Connor was part of the project, but even more secret, even more Need to Know than the other children and their clones; and now this… Connor, back from the dead. He’d even said so himself, in the broadcast. It felt like a lifetime had passed since last Christmas. He certainly felt twice as old for it.

He got coffee from one of the shops surrounding the school grounds, torn between making himself noticed and going into full-on undercover stakeout mode. He didn’t know what was better - to surprise Connor with his presence, or let the guy find  _ him _ . No matter how much coffee he made himself drink, nothing seemed to melt the ice cold lump in his stomach.

He sat in his car all day, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of movement, for anything out of the ordinary, anything familiar,  _ anything _ . He prayed, which he never usually did, for a sign, or a miracle. He’d settle for a nudge.

The longer he sat there, the more apparent it became that the lump in his stomach wasn’t just a lump, but a cold, hard boulder that seemed to sink and sink ever deeper, never hitting rock bottom. His heart kept beating too fast, fluttering like hummingbird wings. He felt too small for his own body, as if he was drowning in it, disappearing within himself. Connor was alive, and Chloe was adamant she’d picked up his reading somewhere closeby. It stood to reason: if they were right about their hunch, he’d been in contact with Amanda, and he was bound to circle back to her at some point. So what if it could take a month? So what if they had some kind of secret, hidey-hole, underground passage somewhere? Hank was a stubborn guy, he’d stay put. He’d keep an eye out, right here, and if it didn’t yield results, he’d move to another part of the neighbourhood. Just because this was the most strategically advantageous place, with a clear view of intersections and bike paths, that didn’t mean it was the best place for a bit of Connor spotting.

But it was his best shot, so he’d take it.

Connor, though… His return was both a goddamn miracle and the most terrifying shit Hank could imagine, like something taken out of a sci-fi horror reel. It felt worse every single day that passed. He’d gone from quiet shock yesterday to waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night to living through a waking nightmare, unable to wake up: his lover returned from the dead,  _ alive _ , but a brand new Connor, while the old one was kept in storage somewhere, bearing the telltale signs of  _ fucking cellular regeneration _ . That’s what the Doc had said - if Connor hadn’t bled out so quickly, he would’ve...gotten better. He would’ve recovered.

... _ recovered _ . From blunt force trauma to the head. From fracturing the goddamn skull. Sitting there in his car, deliberately freezing his butt off to avoid falling asleep from sheer terror and exhaustion (read: pass out from the strain of it, more likely), he felt gripped by sudden panic.

Once he found him, and he  _ would _ , what would he say? What  _ could _ he say without crumbling into fresh grief? It had been a month since his death, almost to the day, and Hank was by no means over him, but he was kind of...sort of...coping. If distracting yourself with work counted as coping, he was coping. He’d stayed mostly sober, which was a plus - he struggled enough with his recurring depression to add to it with depressive substances. But for all his efforts to move forward and get better, get through it all, he realized now that he’d been fooling himself. He wasn’t doing okay at all. He wasn’t coping: he was a mess of pain, a fresh wound laid bare, and now the one person who literally meant the world to him had come along with a shit tonne of salt and buried him in the stuff. You’re not supposed to come back from the dead. You’re just  _ not _ . Once you’re dead, you stay dead, and even if medical science had made huge strides forward in the past decade… They’d yet discovered how to resurrect people from the morgue like something out of Frankenstein’s monster. Kamski’s monster. Kamski’s crowning glory. Hank’s lip curled into a sneer that was equal parts grim humor and cynicism. Betcha the prick didn’t see  _ that one _ coming; his precious ‘boy’ going viral. Connor wasn’t merely resurrected. Connor was a  _ clone  _ \- and he wasn’t afraid to tell the whole wide world all about it.

But, what’d that even  _ mean? _ A clone? All the same bits and pieces that made him who he was, reassembled like a giant jigsaw puzzle? Was he even the same person? If, like Hank, you grew up with sci-fi shows involving teleportation beams, the answer was a resounding yes - and yet… He  _ talked _ , for crying out loud, he-- He looked nothing like himself (he looked  _ exactly _ like himself, but the steely look in his eyes was… Hank couldn’t remember seeing that look more than a few times, and it always went away so quickly); he moved like a completely different guy. His body language was...alien to him. Too controlled, too stiff, too calculated - even looking back to when they first met, Connor had been very much in control of his movements, very stiff around the shoulders, very calculated, but that was different. He’d been hiding, back then: afraid of making too much noise, literally  _ and _ figuratively speaking. This was the complete opposite. Connor was up front, center stage, demanding the undivided attention of his audience.

Hank let his tongue out to swipe over dry, clammy lips, and got his phone out. It’d been less than two days, and that clip was still trending all over the place. Maybe if he watched it one more time, he could find something in there, something in the way Connor talked, or something in his eyes, or his crow’s feet, that told him this was it. The real deal, true,  _ alive _ , not some kind of deepfake bullshit like the government wanted you to believe.

It had to be real.  _ He _ had to be real. Chloe wouldn’t lie to him.

He swiped the phone to play the video. He had it bookmarked for easy access. To think three minutes and a few seconds of a recording could make you feel sick to your stomach and completely ecstatic at the same time. Mostly, Hank felt sick. What in the world would he  _ do _ once he found him again? How would he react? Either of them?

As things turned out, he didn’t get any more time to worry about that bit, as the car door opened behind him, a hooded figure slipped inside, and their eyes met in the rearview mirror. Just like that, time stopped dead in its tracks.

He didn’t have to worry about finding Connor anymore, because Connor had done all the work for him.

***

He saw the car from a mile away - the old Ford Granada that Hank wouldn’t trade in for a newer model unless he had no other choice but to face the facts. The car was old, older than its owner by a decade, and it was only a matter of time before there wouldn’t be any spare parts left on the planet, let alone anyone who knew how to fix it if (when,  _ inevitably _ ) it broke down. It was a relic of times gone by, just like Hank; just like his printed books and his sticky notes and his insistence on keeping  _ business cards _ to hand out to potential witnesses.

That license plate, his bobble-skirted figure on the dashboard (also a relic, of a more sexist era, and it wasn’t even funny if it _was_ an ironic statement by a millennial), and the man himself sitting slumped in the driver’s seat. Hank’s eyes looked up briefly, the lines of his face drawn, making him look shifty and agitated. Everything about him sitting in his car just down the street from Jericho stood out like a sore thumb. He looked up, scanning the area...and his eyes went right past him. He didn’t recognize him like this, _and why would he? (_ ** _Why_** **_didn’t he recognize him?!_** )

Suddenly, Connor felt a spike of irrational resentment: a gnawing sensation at the pit of his stomach, like blunt teeth gnawing at his guts; an unbearable need to  _ do _ something.  _ Say _ something. Ask Hank what the fuck he was doing here, what he thought he could accomplish, what was the  _ point _ ? He was old news, part of Connor’s old life, someone else’s life, he had no business parking his car here, where anyone could see. He had to stay away.

Connor kept his pace approaching the car, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention to himself. He was going to ask Hank, point blank, no -  _ tell him _ he was unwanted. They didn’t need him sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, he could compromise their entire operation! It was unacceptable!

He got as far as slipping around the back of the car and into the backseat on Hank’s side; he got as far as meeting Hank’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and watching them go from startled disbelief a hair’s breadth from lethal aggression at whatever-sorry-ass-punk had got into his car...to recognition. To filling with hope.

Almost a month ago, three weeks now, he had watched Hank speak at his memorial service, and thought to himself that he wasn’t someone who wore his heart on his sleeve. That he seemed reluctant to be there, perhaps even unsure of the whole concept - but how wrong was he, really. Hank was nothing if not open about his feelings, his opinions, his world view. He was just private, at times. He didn’t always feel the need to tell people all about it, but that was something completely different. Hank had never, to his own perfect recollection, hid his feelings, when it was just the two of them. He just-- picked his moments.

Just like that, he couldn’t breathe. His diaphragm locked in place, the rest of him paralyzed and helpless to do anything about it. His entire chest burned, from his lungs up through his throat, and he couldn’t have formed one single word if the entire world depended on it. He’d run out of steam, just like that. No strength left in him, no forward momentum to keep him going. Everything: gone in the blink of two, bright blue eyes filling with tears, and his entire cellular structure overcome by empathy and phantom pangs. He’d never known pain like this. Never.

“Jesus  _ Christ _ , Connor--” Hank wheezed, his voice sounding strangely wet and distant with emotion, and in a matter of consecutive movement and sound, he’d left the driver’s seat and rushed out of the car. The backseat door opened wide, and Hank’s arms pulled him into a hug he didn’t know he’d needed since the day he woke up. Everything crumbled, then. Absolutely everything: his resentment, his resolve, every barrier he’d carefully put in place since Amanda told him in no uncertain terms he was the one to change the future, no matter the cost, up to and including leaving his old life behind - everything at the risk of this new life. With Hank kneeling halfway into the backseat, Connor wept without so much as a whisper of sound above his breathing. Tears rolled down his cheeks, white hot and searing in the ambient cold. Hank said his name over and over again, like a prayer, muffled and choked up with tears of his own - but all Connor could think was one, gut wrenching, terrifying thought:

It felt like coming home.

***

They stayed in the backseat for what felt like forever, side by side, shifting endlessly between looking and not looking at each other. Hank’s hand kept finding his fingers, his wrist, touching, pressing, squeezing at his hand as if he was afraid it was all an illusion. Neither one of them had said anything for well over half an hour. Words were difficult when tainted with grief and worse, with death and resurrection - and that in itself was a lie Connor couldn’t bear telling, regardless of how Hank looked at him, like he’d come back from the dead when he’d done nothing of the sort. He was nothing like his predecessor. He didn’t even come close, and how could he? He was someone, some _ thing _ completely different. An unknown entity.

It was painfully clear to him Hank didn’t see it that way. When Hank looked at him, it was with the eyes of a man who’d witnessed a miracle. That had to stop. They both had to wake up and smell the bullshit. Didn’t matter how much it hurt to leave this bubble of wishful thinking and relative peace.

“I’m not him,” he said, but his voice wavered, like his own conviction. The words sounded hollowed out and empty, even to his own ears. Not as though he was pointing out a well known fact, but arguing a logical conclusion they both recognized as flawed. Hank’s hand held on, fingers curled around Connor’s and holding on tight.

“I saw your...manifesto,” he murmured, neither confirming nor denying his thoughts on the matter. “That’s-- quite something. Talk about history in the making. You were...quite something.”

“I meant every word,” he insisted. His own fingers closed a bit tighter around Hank’s hand. He couldn’t help it. His mind had one idea of how to move forward, his extremities a different one. “Connor’s dead, and he’s not coming back. I’m… I’m sorry, Hank.”

Silence descended over them once more, but it didn’t last this time. Glancing over, he saw the line of tension in Hank’s jaw. He was weighing his words, or perhaps just choosing which path to walk down.

“I like your voice,” he said, which in itself was the last thing Connor had expected. It gave him an unsettling sensation of déjà vu.

Hank had a way of surprising him...or, or the other him. The former him, the him that wasn’t there anymore. He didn’t know what to say to that. His thumb brushed over Hank’s knuckles, like a reflex. “You look different. Without the beard.”

Hank’s lips twitched into a joyless smirk. “It had to go. I thought I could forget your hands moving over my face if I got rid of it.”

“His hands,” Connor corrected him; Hank squeezed his hand gently in response, ignoring the reminder, or simply not listening to it. “Did it work?”

“Nope.” Hank’s smirk turned into more of a smile, but neither reached his eyes. “I wake up to the sound of your fingers rasping over my chin, or my cheek. I’ll lie awake in the middle of the night, and I  _ swear _ I can feel your lips on my forehead. Kissing me goodnight. Lulling me back to sleep. I can’t forget.”

_ His fingers, his lips _ , Connor didn’t say. Life seemed cruel enough without adding to it. He felt numb, mind-crushed and aching at the same time, filling with the irrational urge to go back in time and fix things. Wishful thinking borne of survivor’s guilt, was that it?

“I’m sorry, Hank,” he said, once more but rather lacking in  _ feeling _ . “You have to stop searching for him, he’s  _ gone _ . You can’t come here again, you have to stay away, as far away as you can. I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m not the same person, I’m-- I’m not the Connor you remember.”

Hank sighed, and finally turned to look him in the eye. He looked tired, as though he was weighed down by all the troubles of the world. “It’s a bit late for that. Isn’t it? I’m not going anywhere... I want to help.”

“You’re not listening to me, Hank! You could compromise our entire--”

“ _ No _ . You say you’re not him. Fine. You keep telling yourself that. But if you’re half the man you used to be, then I am  _ going _ to fucking  _ help _ .” Hank’s voice shook through his words, but that didn’t stop him. Connor could only imagine what it must feel like, to sit side by side with someone you used to know and love, thinking they would never come back.

Hank lowered his voice to just above a whisper. He let Connor’s hand slip from his grip. “And if by some sick twist of fate it turns out you’re a war mongering psychopath like the news wants everyone to believe? I’ll shoot you dead, myself. How’s that for a deal?”

It wasn’t a deal Connor wanted to make, though some metaphorical devil on his shoulder pointed out they needed all the help they could get, and why not through someone completely detached from the DV-8 project?

Connor shook his head. “I’ll have to clear you with the others. I’ll text you an address and time. Don’t come back here, no matter what happens.”

Hank all but sneered. “Fuck’s sake, Connor--!”

“I’m not asking. I’m telling you how it’s going to be.”

The slow nod he got in response felt off, somehow. As if Hank was having a private conversation with himself, and Connor didn’t need to know. It made him regret his choice of words, no matter how correct they were.

“Your way, or no way, huh?”

Connor nodded, and then had to watch with a tightening sensation around his throat as Hank got out of the car. He left the door open, and gestured for Connor to do the same.

“Then I suppose I’d better get the Hell outta here, huh? You go do what you have to, and I’ll await instructions like a good little helper.”

“Hank…”

But Hank shook his head, and refused to look him in the eye. “I know my own name, thank you. Time to go.”

Connor let his chin touch the base of his throat, and nodded. It wasn’t just time to go, it was time to leave, and to part ways. Their moment was gone, never to come back - and the most frustrating thing of all in that moment wasn’t Hank’s chip on the shoulder, or the niggling fear that he’d somehow ruined things just by revealing himself like this, but that perhaps Amanda had been right all along: he should’ve stayed hidden, remained an urban legend circling around the deviant community.

What if this was the biggest mistake he’d ever made?

***

Connor got out of the goddamn car; Hank drove off with a great rattling of his tires that tore through the icy slush and packed snow, and didn’t look back. He felt like shit, and for what? What had he expected, really? A tearful reunion, a clean slate? Things going back to how they used to be? Last time he checked he wasn’t a princess, and Chloe wasn’t the fairy-fuckin’-godmother.

Speaking of Chloe, who had been quiet and on standby for the duration of this botched attempt at confrontation (or whatever Connor had tried to do), suddenly appeared on the dashboard, looking like she’d been invited to a wedding but it turned into a funeral.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, voice wavering and tiny. “I thought we were family…”

“Me too, sweetheart,” said Hank, his jaw working painfully from side to side. “Me too.”

***

Connor marched into the school, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, going by his peripheral vision alone for how his eyes were blurred. He didn’t feel any better for having met Hank, didn’t even manage to chase him off, however metaphorically. No, no, he had to agree to let him into the team. Even if he hadn’t outright agreed, he knew Hank wouldn’t just sit on the sidelines. He’d want to help, and he would find a way to do it, and to Hell with the rest. Amanda had warned him not to go public, to stay in the shadows to avoid detection. Well. Screw that. Hindsight was twenty/twenty, but he could  _ calculate future events _ , for Pete’s sake!

“...Connor?”

He blinked, step faltering just as he passed someone in the hall. Someone with a familiar voice and a posture he could pick out of a crowd any day of the week (although, he could do that with anyone, these days), even if she seemed somehow to be shrinking into herself. They looked each other in the eye, and for a moment, he couldn’t for the life of him recognize her. It was like a mental block that refused to crumble away, until, suddenly, everything clicked into place.

“Kara?”

She nodded, and her big, blue eyes started filling with fresh tears. “I’m sorry! Oh, ugh, I’m sorry! I didn’t know where else to go!”

They shared saddened smiles, and took each other’s hands. “It’s okay,” he said. “You came just to the right place. Come on… Let’s have tea. Get you warmed up.”

If he had to choose between being a leader of his people, and a friend to someone in need? This time the choice was simple, easy, but he had a feeling there would come a time when he would have to make much tougher decisions for the good of everyone who depended on him. This was just the beginning - who knew where they would end up, before all was said and done?

He’d worry about the future later, he’d talk to the other leaders, tell them about his encounter with Hank - but, later. For now, being a friend was enough. It had to be.

***

Somewhere across town, in an undisclosed location, Markus accessed his server dedicated to the one and only Lieutenant Hank Anderson, proud of the efficacy of his low-fi surveillance gear. Low-fi car, low-fi gear, it made perfect sense. It was tiny, tucked away safely out of sight, and not something that would ping anyone’s radar, let alone a walking, talking supercomputer with aspirations of grandeur.

He listened to the recording, feeling...smug. Satisfied in ways that could only come from a job well done, from planning ahead, for taking suitable precautions. Once Hank had a way in,  _ he _ had a way in - and lo and behold, it sure seemed like he’d found himself a way in.


	15. Resistance is...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peaceful demonstration ends in mayhem. People die, and Connor blames his actions for leading Jericho to such a horrible defeat. He and Hank fight, harsh words are spoken, as is often the case when emotions run high.
> 
> Kara and Connor discuss physics and philosophy, and how perhaps they aren't mutually exclusive concepts. Kara insists Connor reach out to Hank, because they need all the friends they can get.
> 
> Only problem is, once he finally gets around to it, Hank isn't answering his phone...

* * *

Over the course of the next few days, it became abundantly clear that the world was irrevocably changed. Whether it was for the better or the worse remained unclear, but in the aftermath of Connor’s broadcast it was only a matter of time before everything seemed to implode. People all over the world went from questioning the authenticity of the upload itself, to Connor’s claims, to his very existence - could it be that he was for real, or was he merely a case of smoke and mirrors, cgi and artificial intelligence working together to form one of the most elaborate deep-fakes of the 2030s. Speculation skyrocketed when the White House itself issued a statement denying the existence of any such “RK” project, saying that the man calling himself Connor had nothing to do with the DV8 project. He was  _ not _ one of those affected, or he would have been part of the files. Simple as that.

It was too little, too late. People were already reeling from the implications of government funded human cloning.  _ Successful _ human cloning - not for medical reasons, such as organ harvesting for those in need of replacements, not for life supporting measures, or finding cures for disease. Not for anything other than creating ‘the perfect citizen’, and then, ultimately, a soldier. Questions were raised as to whether normal people would be phased out in favor of these ‘more docile’, ‘hard working’ clones, as if the human race was a flawed product. Surplus to requirements. Found wanting. Unfit.

Reporters asked about the spike in reports of missing persons, wanting to know whether it was at all related to this facility Connor spoke of - but they were met with nothing but deflection. It was “absurd”, the White House Press Secretary told them, going on to say that all those persons affected by their policy on deviants would receive a notice, and that “our detainment officers won’t apprehend anyone without informing their families.” She said it would be an ongoing process, not a quick fix - and that the official policy on Connor was that he was nothing more than an individual following his own agenda, and the President herself urged the American people not to give him any more attention than they had already.

Much too little, and much too late; and what’s more, it spurred Jericho into action. The entire community demanded to be seen, heard, and the consequences be damned. Enough, as they say, is enough.

***

Despite some misgivings regarding bringing Hank into the fold, it was decided that he could be useful. As pragmatic as the leaders of Jericho were, Hank was only happy to be of some damn assistance now the cat was officially out of the bag with regards to Connor. It was clear for anyone to see that he wouldn’t back down easy, and for all intents and purposes he could be kept on the outskirts of the operation. He could keep an eye on things from his end, and, wrong or right, he could give them a heads up if DPD policy started shifting for the worse.

What’s more, he was just the kind of man they needed to get the appropriate permits. They were going to march through the streets of Detroit, in peaceful demonstration, to show everyone that they were there, they were alive, and they were to be reckoned with. They couldn’t be made to go away, made to disappear, made to flee for the Canadian border. Not anymore.

It was time to take a stand.

And then, naturally, everything fell apart.

***

In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t the most logically sound thing to do, to organize a march. It certainly wasn’t the most rational next step to Connor’s plan. Granted, his plan had changed quite dramatically from hiding in the dark, saving as many of the surviving orphans and their clones part of Project DV-8, to outing himself to the entire world as a government funded experiment into the unknown. In the short time he had been awake, he had become a legend within his own community, a reluctant but capable leader, a savior: protector of those who needed it the most.

On that day, all of Jericho rallied behind him, and walked side by side with each other. They wore no masks, nothing to disguise their faces. If they were to make a statement, it had to be clear, and precise, and direct - just like their leader. Side by side, it couldn’t have been more obvious that they were all part of the same project, like different branches off the same tree. If the public at large had ever doubted the truth behind the leaked files, there they were, in the flesh, terrified and elated at the same time.

At least, that’s what it felt like, to Hank. He watched the demonstrations on his phone, parked a couple blocks from the school. Despite Connor’s warning to stay away, he couldn’t help himself. The school was like a magnet pulling him in - or perhaps, its enigmatic leader. He couldn’t help but smile, watching the live news reports of the demonstration. It was going...well. Better than he’d hoped. People had their phones out, recording the march, they were cheering. It really couldn’t have gone better - but Hank’s cops’ instincts told him it was all going a bit too smoothly, a bit too well for comfort. The longer it went on without some kind of altercation or counter action (that’s  _ just _ what they’d need, more riots in the streets), the more his insides coiled into a cold, hard knot of Gordian proportions.

Meanwhile, in another part of that fine nation he called home, someone else was having similar concerns…

***

The Secretary of Homeland Security stood by the tall windows of his home, overlooking Capitol Hill, the comforting sounds of a crackling fireplace behind him. Rather than the view outside, iconic though it was, his focus was set squarely on something entirely different. Detroit proper, national news broadcasting live from what was now dubbed ‘a march for civil liberties for all humans’.

“‘Civil liberties’?” he asked of his PA, while the assembled masses cheered in Detroit. “I’ve never heard such nonsense. ‘For all humans’. As if that somehow includes  _ them _ . Ignorant little rats.”

His personal assistant shifted her foot from one to the other, but it didn’t concern him whether she liked his opinions or not. She worked for him, she had to deal.

“Special Agent Manfred left a message for you, Sir, but I’m not sure I understood it correctly.”

Rogers unglued his eyes from the holographic screen to look at the proverbial messenger who may or may not be on the verge of getting shot. It seemed only fitting that the look in her eye resembled a partridge staring down the barrel of a gun. “Go on.”

“He said to tell you…” She looked at her tablet, reading out loud from her notes. “‘If a man stands by the river long enough, sooner or later he’ll see the corpses of his enemies float by...’”

Rogers nodded, his eyes returning to the news. Then, quite slowly, he began to smile. Detroit Police had arrived on the scene, effectively grinding the march to a halt. Looked as though things were about to get interesting. If Detroit PD FUBARed this mess, all the better for his own agenda. With a bit of luck, the last remaining RK800 might catch a bullet with his forehead, leaving Markus’s promise fulfilled. But knowing Agent Manfred, he had something else in mind. He was, and always had been about the long haul. No short term, rash decisions unless absolutely necessary. No, no.

“That will be all, thank you,” Rogers said, but then tapped his lips as if in afterthought. “Take the rest of the day off, while you’re at it. I’m feeling generous.”

“But, Sir--?”

“Go on. Before I change my mind.”

***

For the first time since he woke up that fateful night before New Year’s Eve of 2038, Connor had to face the music. There was no more hiding, no more anonymity. The life his predecessor had led in that small studio flat seemed very far away indeed. The march came to a stop right at the end of the street, looking out over Hart Plaza, when white and blue DPD sedans raced in from the adjacent streets, lights flashing red and blue and sirens blaring, blocking their path, and officers in full protective gear positively swarmed into position - Captain Jeffrey Fowler taking the lead. They were ordered to disperse immediately; he said this demonstration was illegal; he said that for deviants to gather in numbers was a criminal offense. He said this would be resolved peacefully; if everyone cooperated, no one would get hurt today, and Connor believed every word of it. Even if having a dozen firearms pointed at him made it hard to believe.

“We can’t run and hide!” North insisted, pointing out their strength in numbers. To her, every day was a good day to fight and die for the cause. Josh wasn’t so confident - they should stand their ground, but not fight back at any cost. Ever the pragmatic soul, Simon pointed out they’d accomplish nothing if they ended up dead. Martyrdom was not the way to go - Connor agreed.

And yet, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of anger. They had all the paperwork for the demonstration, they themselves had done nothing wrong except to dare make themselves seen. They had grown from the victims they were into individuals capable of anything they set their minds to - and the authorities thought their independence was so dangerous to society that they had to threaten to slaughter them. He’d met Captain Fowler and the rest of Hank’s team, a lifetime ago, now but his impression of them said not a single one of them would have willingly authorized something like this. Not even Reed, who was all bluster and no backbone. It stood to reason then, that it had to come from on high. The people in power didn’t dare face this brave new world they were living in, and left it to good men like Fowler to deal with the fallout.

It turned into an unmitigated disaster - despite Connor’s intentions of calm leadership and a peaceful demonstration, panic erupted at the sheer threat of arrest. People started running like hunted animals, fights ensued when onlookers decided to act amateur law enforcement and detain those who were part of the demonstration. Shots were fired into the crowd - though, not by the police, who responded the best way they could.

Despite the non-violence on the part of the demonstrators, people died. That, more than anything, would be the catalyst that turned the tide of public opinion - and the press had a field day. They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, and Connor was about to experience the crushing reality of all your good intentions falling apart before your very eyes.

***

They made it back to the school - most of them in one piece, some bruised and battered, some with scrapes, others grazed by bullets. As far as anyone knew, it was a failure in all respects. Death, not by police stupidity, but Connor’s own arrogance. How he could think for one second that they could march through the streets and not face opposition - that it was statistically likely, but not enough to factor into things, because surely it wouldn’t lead to this.

Death. Wounded allies. Parents dead in the streets, and their children waiting below the school for their safe return. What had he done? How could he possibly have given the okay?

If only he could go back to being invisible, to sink through the floor like it were quicksand never to resurface. He and the other leaders ushered everyone in, where they were safe and out of sight, and the security protocols of the building meant they were shielded from the outside world. As much as he wanted to hide, he realized that he didn’t have that luxury. Whether he liked it or not, he had a responsibility towards everyone. He had taken on the primary role of leadership, and he would have to face the disappointment and ire of everyone he’d failed - and he had failed  _ everyone _ .

Amanda didn’t even speak to him, just gave him a calm, measured look of absolute regret, and closed the door to her study. She would no doubt want to debrief him later, but for now she had effectively called a cease-fire. He retreated to the staff lounge, tail between his legs. The last person he could have possibly wanted to see in that moment was none other than Hank, but who else was already there, pacing restlessly by the coffee machine?

Hank, wringing his hands like an old, wet rag, turning startled eyes on him at the sound of footsteps, mouth opening in a silent gasp as their eyes met. The world seemed to implode into itself. Hank didn’t care about the others. All he cared about was Connor; once again they found themselves on diametrically opposite ends of the same spectrum.

“Jesus Chr-- Holy shit, Connor! Are you okay? Sorry, that’s a stupid question - how… Are you hurt? How is everyone?”

They were mostly valid questions, far better than his initial fumble of  _ Are you okay?  _ When he was obviously not and couldn’t be after what had happened. Hank had obviously been watching the live news streams, and he was concerned, but all Connor could think to say had nothing to do with the march, and everything to do with Hank becoming a liability.

“What are you doing here? I told you to stay clear of the school.” He kept his arms at his sides, relaxed, watching as Hank’s shackles went up in no time. It was exactly as he predicted. Hank had a volatile temper, and it was just a matter of time before it got the better of him. This would prove to them both he had no business being here at all.

“Excuse me?” Hank all but hissed. His chin lowered in increments, his eyes narrowing. “I was worried! You expect me to stay on the sidelines? I didn’t sign up for getting you killed!”

“I wasn’t the one who opened fire on a peaceful demonstration.”

“You ran from the police--”

“There were a dozen guns pointed at us, of course people panic!”

“You didn’t have to run! You could’ve stood your ground, chanted Kumbayah, whatever the fuck else, but don’t  _ run _ .”

Connor leveled him with a cold smirk. “Really, Hank? ‘Running makes you look guilty’?  _ Please _ . Spoken like a true cop.”

Hank froze, like whatever else he had planned on saying. Just like that, with a few well chosen words, all the steam went right out of him. “I’m not stupid. Okay? I  _ know _ . Just-- You’re gonna get yourself killed all over again, and then what? No more do overs. No more chances. That’s what you said, you’re the last one. There’ll never be another you.”

And there they were again, rehashing the same old thing, and just like Hank, that was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now. He held up his hands, palms facing the lieutenant, as placating as he could muster. “All I wanted was one moment alone before I face the others. I don’t need yet another one of your pathetic attempts at convincing me I’m someone you used to know. I’m  _ not him _ , he  _ died _ , and I was brought in to replace him - to do something he could  _ never _ have done. I told you not to come near me, or the school, or anyone associated with it. Just by being here, you’re compromising everything we’ve worked for.”

Hank looked stunned; Connor took one step closer, hands still fanned out. “What if you’ve been followed, or monitored somehow? What were you thinking, coming here in the first place? Don’t you think if I had died, it would have been all over the news?”

“I-- I’m sorry,” said Hank, with the faintest of stammers to his voice. “I didn’t think--”

Connor nodded, calculating exactly what to say, and how to say it for maximum effect. “Obviously not. You don’t think, Hank, you  _ feel  _ too much. Why is it so hard for you to understand? Whatever you had with him has nothing to do with me. It’s all in your head. None of it is real.”

And  _ that _ was the final nail in the coffin. Hank’s face went entirely white, blanched like the driven snow outside. His lips pursed, a muscle at his jaw jumping as he swallowed down whatever he might have said, then suddenly raised his hands, which spoke for him.

‘Only everything,’ he signed, in stiff but practiced gestures. ‘Only us,’ and then said, “Call me when you’re done saving the world. Or whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

 

***

Night descended on the school like a wet blanket: sopping wet and ice cold, and not a silver lining as far as they eye could see. Connor found refuge in his old classroom, though it was short lived. He remembered his students, his classes. He’d done more good teaching parents and friends and loved ones to sign, than he could ever do as the hand picked leader of a resistance he’d never planned to be part of. He could never have imagined where he’d end up. He’d always known he was different, but who was he to think he could…’save the world’? He didn’t want to save anything. He just wanted recognition, for himself, for all the others, for what was done to them.

He sighed, his lungs feeling leaden and unmoving. He sat down heavily in one of the chairs, resting his face in the palms of his hands. Behind him, there was the silent click of the door opening, and the light padding footsteps of someone familiar.

“Hey, Connor…” said Kara, approaching him slowly. “What are you doing here, all alone? We’ve been waiting for you, downstairs.”

Downstairs - the simplest code word for the most complicated covert operation he’d ever taken part of, to date. He sighed, again. Kara sat down in front of him, sideways on the chair, leaning her chin on her arms atop the backrest. When Connor couldn’t think of anything to say, she answered him with the tiniest of smiles. 

“You’re going to have to talk to them. Everyone’s going to be looking to you for support.”

Connor nodded. He knew, and he knew all too well. “It’s a small miracle they didn’t all start shooting after that first shot…”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I knew,” Connor snapped, but quiet, through gritted teeth. “I just didn’t think it was  _ likely enough _ . I ran the numbers over, and over again, and I had a dozen other scenarios ranked higher than someone opening fire in the street. I should’ve...” He trailed off, eyes stinging.

Kara reached out then, taking both of his hands for a gentle squeeze. “We’re not defined by the mistakes we make, but how we recover from them. You have to believe that, and the others will, too. No one expects you to be infallible.”

His throat ached. Then again, everything from head to toe seemed to ache the more he thought about it. “I do. I can’t make mistakes, I can’t  _ afford _ mistakes. You saw what happened! People died because of my failure.”

Kara held on, and leaned in closer, trying to catch his eye. “They died because a spectator thought it was a fun idea to bring a firearm to a demonstration. You can’t control everything. No one can, not even you. Okay?”

As well meaning as she was, Connor couldn’t make himself agree. He had to leave her hanging, her and her open, question marked bracket. Instead, he cleared his throat, and let his hands slip away from her grip.

“He has your cat.”

Kara blinked, but soon found her footing with a wry smile. “Who, Hank? I know. He left a note in my kitchen. I have hidden cameras. Kitty cams. Ironic, huh?”

Connor shrugged. Once again, he had no idea how to respond. Trust Kara to find the words for him, and in the worst, most horrendously insightful way possible. She knew him too well - or thought she did.

“You’re worried about him,” she said, as if stating an indisputable fact. The worst part of it was, she wasn’t entirely wrong - also something he couldn’t make himself admit, not even to himself.

“He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.”

“That’s not what I mean, Connor. You’re pushing him away. For what? To protect him?” He opened his mouth, but she shut him up by soldiering on. “Don’t argue with me. All you’re doing is hurting his feelings - and patronizing him won’t win him over to your point of view.”

“He won’t stop talking like I’m his dead ‘boyfriend’. Come to think of it, neither will you. I’m sick and tired of it, and I’m done. I am  _ done _ trying to get through his thick skull. My whole life has been based on lies and fake memories implanted into my head, and he expects me to come up smelling like roses? My life’s a festering cesspool of shit!”

Kara’s smile didn’t wane, but took on a new edge. Connor didn’t quite know what to make of the look in her eyes. “Alright. So, you’re saying you’re not the same person. Fair enough. What’s different this time?”

“What do you mean?”

She held out her hands, palms up, as if weighing Connor’s previous life against his current one. “You’re the last one. That means you’ve died before. Throughout your childhood, maybe even as an adult.”

Connor sat up straighter. He could feel every vertebra slide into perfect alignment. “Correct.”

“But you weren’t aware that’s what happened?”

“No.” He shook his head. He could see where she was going with this, but it didn’t make him any less agitated. “I was sick, as a child. I… I’ve been on medication for as long as I can remember.”

“So. Hospital visits? Something breaks, you go away for a while, and come back brand new?”

“Something like that.”

“So, why is this time different? Because you know what happened?”

“Ignorance isn’t bliss, Kara. It’s deception. Once you know,  _ you know _ , and you can’t go back! I’m the last Connor, and all the others  _ died _ , and we are  _ not the same _ !”

Kara didn’t so much as flinch. When he stood up with a clatter and walked away, all she did was stand up, and stay put. “You remember everything now, don’t you? Your childhood, your adolescence? Every time you came back?”

“Yes!” Crossing his arms over his chest felt like the only way to keep himself from imploding. It felt like a vacuum had set up shop in his torso and threatened to suck everything in.

“Then why can’t you be the Connor you’ve always been? You have all this experience, all these memories - every strand of DNA,  _ everything _ is the same. The only thing that’s different is your knowledge. You understand the world differently. You can see things clearly now. No more medicine, no more living in fear. Why can’t you be the same, even if you’re a different person?”

He shook his head. For every word, he wished he could unhear it, make her take it back. The truth was too bitter a pill to swallow, so bitter it made his throat close up almost entirely. “Because I’m scared! Alright? It’s  _ physically impossible _ for me to be the same, because  _ I died _ \-- Everything I took for granted, every physical law I knew to be true,  _ everything _ has been overturned. I don’t know what’s real anymore, half the time I don’t know what it is that I’m feeling, or if I’m feeling anything at all, and I  _ certainly _ don’t have time to figure things out when everything depends on my actions.”

It was Kara’s turn to take a deep breath, though it wasn’t technically a sigh. She took a few steps closer, but kept a distance she knew he preferred. She really did know him too well. “You’ve been through a lot. More than most of us… But-- Hank’s a good guy. He’s loyal to a fault, and even if things will never be the same between you, he could be an invaluable ally. And a friend. Most of all, the best of friends.

“Maybe if you just talk to him, explain to him you don’t want him to get caught in the crossfire. He’ll understand.”

Connor shrugged, biting the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. What would I say? I said such...horrible things.”

She inclined her head, mouth pressed into a thin line of contemplation. “You’ll think of something. But right now? You and I are going to go downstairs, and check on everyone.”

***

[STERLING HEIGHTS, ANDERSON RESIDENCE, JANUARY 30th 9:14 PM]

Sometimes when you least expect it, Fate, or Kismet, or whatever you want to call it, Lady Luck, Fortuna - that one thing that gives Murphy’s Law a run for its money, knocks on your door. You go from feeling like a bit of an old sack of potatoes left to rot somewhere unsavory, to remembering exactly what you’re made of. That’s exactly what happened to Hank that night, one month and change off Christmas Day, when the world turned to shit. Suddenly, in the middle of doing absolutely nothing but watch a rerun of the  Los Angeles Lakers v Boston Celtics game, the phone rang. He half expected it to be Fowler, or Collins, or even Chen, calling to see how he was holding up (everyone seemed terribly concerned these days, and he supposed they had more than ample reason to). But what he got instead was a blocked caller ID, and his heart almost skipped a beat. Chloe paused the game and took up center stage on the screen, palms pressed together over her mouth.

“Pick it up! Oh, what if it’s him!”

Hank doubted it. Not with the fight they’d had, not with the already strained relationship they got goin’, not with the things Connor had told him. But, on the other hand, the fight they had? The way they were trying, if a touch unsuccessfully, to rebuild some form of relationship? Those two things alone were just as much reason to give Connor the benefit of the doubt. It had to be him. Who else. Could be a telemarketer, but, again, he doubted that even more.

“ _ Hank _ ,” snapped Chloe from her front row seat. “You answer the phone right now, or I’ll do it for you!”

“Alright, alright, Jesus fuck--” He help up his hand in a forestalling motion, and lifted the phone to his ear. He couldn’t feel his own  _ teeth _ , he was so wound up. “This is Anderson speaking. Make it snappy.”

It was met with stark silence on the other end, like a combined question mark and exclamation point. Hank could only agree that it was a stupid way to answer the phone, and he didn’t know  _ where _ \--

“ _ Hank? _ ”

Numb teeth, bone dry throat. That was it. Hank’s eyes went to Chloe’s, and though she was beaming like his own personal sunbeam, he could hardly feel his own face. “Connor… Hi. Uh. Hey.”

More silence, cut off only by a small huff of air. Was that the hint of a smile, over the line? “ _ Hi, _ ” he said, and there it was. Hank could hear it, that dry amusement waiting in the wings of every private conversation they’d ever had. But it was quiet, low-key, barely there.

“ _ Eloquent as always, I hear. _ ”

Hank’s mouth tugged into a self-conscious smirk. “I wasn’t exactly prepared. Give a guy a warning next time you’re gonna call? I didn’t think you… I mean, that was fast.”

“ _ I know, I know… _ ” Connor half-grumbled at himself. Hank got up to get some coffee from the pot, just to have something to occupy himself. As tentatively happy he was, he didn’t want to be crawling out of his skin with happy fuzzies right in front of Chloe. Connor went on.

“ _ I just-- I know it isn’t an excuse, but-- I’m sorry. I was… I said some things I shouldn’t have, and with everything that’s happened it all feels so… _ ”

“Pointless?” Hank offered, pausing only to blow carefully across the surface of his cuppa. “Trivial? Unnecessary?”

“ _ Yes, alright,  _ yes _. All of the above. _ ” He went quiet again, but not for long. Hank could almost picture him fidgeting where he stood. Or playing with his coin, or tapping out  _ pi _ against the nearest surface.

“ _ I guess I just needed to hear your voice. Pretend like none of this ever happened, and it was just… _ ”

Despite everything, or perhaps because of everything they’d been through together, Hank’s chest filled with phantom pangs of remorse. That special kind of homesickness that has nothing to do with the place you are, but the people who are there with you.

“Just us?”

Connor’s breath came again, and Hank was one hundred percent sure of it now. Connor was smiling. “ _ Tell me I’m not crazy, Hank? I know things will never be the same, because they can’t be, but… Can we-- _ ”

“Can we, what?” Was that an olive branch or a lifeline? He couldn’t tell which of the two, and frankly, it didn’t actually matter. His heart beat like drums between his ears.

“ _ Can we talk? Just you and me, no… No one else, no distractions? Can’t we just pretend, for a little while? _ ”

Hank almost asked him ‘pretend what’, to tease him, to hear that smile in his voice again, but Connor was hitting his stride. “ _ Pretend everything’s fine, that we’re still friends, that-- That we have Christmas to look forward to, and New Year’s-- I… I don’t know what I’m asking, but… Coffee might be a good start? _ ”

Hank drifted back into the living room, greeted by a silently ecstatic Chloe. He grinned at her, knowing she was listening in over the phone. Coffee. Maybe it could be a chance to start over, somehow. They’d talk, figure out how to relate to each other, or  _ not _ relate to each other - but they’d cross that bridge when they got that far. “I don’t think the Java has those Christmasy chai spiced latte things anymore. But I’ll settle for a regular black, no sugar, no frills.”

“ _ Yeah? _ ” said Connor, voice lit up with cheerful surprise. Still quiet, still tempered and barely there, as if he didn’t dare tap into his full emotional register for fear of the consequences. Hank knew the feeling. Being so full of emotion you think you’ll explode the moment someone asks if you’re doing okay.

“Yeah. I’m guessing we’ll have to be incognito, huh? What with your face being all over the news?”

“ _ Right. Right. Uhm… I’ll send a cab. Leave your phone in case it’s being tracked. Double check your clothes for bugs. You can’t be too careful. Okay? _ ”

Hank grinned. Suddenly it felt like a whole lot of work for a cup of coffee. “Okay. I’ll be careful. And-- Listen, Con?”

“ _ Yes? _ ”

He let out a huff of air of his own, and changed his mind. Some things were better said face to face, somewhere safe, where no one was listening in. “It can wait. I’ll see you soon.”

“ _ See you soon, Hank. _ ”

He didn’t want to hang up, but sheer force of will made his thumb press the corresponding symbol on the touch screen. The room erupted in cheers, all Chloe’s, and even Sumo jumped at him in a bout of puppy like excitement. Kitty hid under the coffee table, as was the sensible thing to do.

Maybe things would be alright after all. Maybe not right away, but in the long run - and Hank was nothing if not a patient man.

And he wasn’t the only one.

***

[JERICHO, AMANDA’S OFFICE, JANUARY 30th 10:15 PM]

Later in the night, Connor sat in one of the old, leather Chesterfield club chairs in Amanda’s office, the fingers of one hand tapping away at the armrest. Hank wasn’t answering his phone, and Connor was starting to get worried. Behind him, out in the tucked away corner of the garden, he could hear the gears turning as the hidden entrance opened. Soon enough, Amanda came into view, hands clasped in front of her. She looked much like he felt: lines of tension around her eyes and mouth, dark shadows clinging to her bone structure. Tired and worn, by the look of her. She came to a stop on the opposite side of the fireplace, and settled heavily into the club chair’s twin. As always, she cut straight to the point.

“You know I don’t always agree with your choices, Connor… But that doesn’t mean I don’t respect them. In time. I just need time.”

“I know,” he said, keeping his voice down. “But it’s a luxury we don’t have.”

Amanda pierced him with a look of sheer scrutiny. “You mean time is a luxury  _ we have _ that many do not. You’re thinking of the people we lost today. You’re thinking of how much worse it could’ve been, and you can’t be sure it it makes you a bad person.”

“It’s bad enough that anyone died at all. How can I justify the lives taken by  _ how many _ ? How many died, how many didn’t?”

“There are no absolutes in war, child. But that’s not what’s on your mind.”

Sometimes Connor could really do without having people around that thought they knew him so goddamn well, and turned out to be right. Amanda went on, “What’s troubling you?”

He dragged in a deep breath, letting it out in thin streams of air through his nose. “It’s Hank. He won’t answer my calls or my texts. I’ve turned into a teenager stereotype.”

“You have not,” said Amanda, firm but understanding enough. “It is late,” she suggested, splaying her hands out as if to support her own statement. “Perhaps he’s asleep.”

The corners of Connor’s mouth angled downwards in a horseshoe shape of discontentment. “He’s a light sleeper. Even if he can’t hear it, he always checks his phone the moment he’s back. Old cop habits.”

“I see. Well. How about we worry about it no sooner than we have reason to. Give him until morning. Whether you like it or not, you need to sleep, or you’ll crash and burn when you absolutely cannot afford it.”

She was right, of course, as was the curse and blessing of parental figures: he was tired to the bone. Too tired, too weary and too wired at the same time. The reasonable thing to do would be to sleep, and deal with everything in the morning. It’s just that he had a bad feeling about this, and it kept niggling away at the back of his mind. The problem was he didn’t like the concept of hunches, or gut feelings. He much preferred it when he had evidence to back himself up. It was probably guilt, messing with his mind, tapping into his reptile brain.

But then, quite out of the blue, his phone started ringing. It made both him and Amanda jump slightly, for how suddenly the room filled with noise. It was Hank’s number, but the caller ID sent chills down his spine. [Chlo-e.]

“Answer it!” Amanda urged him. “Go on, take the call!”

Connor swallowed through a painful dry patch coating the inside of his throat, swiped the green icon, to answer the call. His heart beat an agitated tattoo in his chest.

“Hello? ...Chloe?”

The only response he got was one he didn’t ask for, as the room filled with the quiet little sounds of an AI in tears.


End file.
